


Ked's Teen Wolf Tumblr Fics

by Kedreeva



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt, various pairings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-15 15:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 178
Words: 115,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13616472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva
Summary: A collection of tumblr askbox prompts from the Teen Wolf fandom.





	1. Introduction

* * *

The following works of fiction are taken from [my tumblr](http://kedreeva.tumblr.com).

The ratings and warnings per chapter may vary, so please read the chapter summaries.

The pairings (if applicable) will be listed in the chapter titles, so that you can find them easier.

I only accept askbox prompts a couple of times a year, when I make a post requesting them.

I am not currently accepting prompts.

I apologize if you've got me on follow here for all updates.... it's going to be a long night for your e-mail.

I hope you enjoy at least one of these!

* * *

 


	2. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Derek is puzzled by Stiles online gaming, or so Stiles thinks.

            Stiles first notices that Derek is staring when he stops hearing the soft, regular sound of pages turning in the tome Derek is reading. It was one of the books Stiles had picked up about lore and legends, one that was old enough Stiles had figured it might hold some amount of truth. With nothing else to do while cooped up in Stiles’ room, Derek had taken to reading it. He hadn’t appreciated it very much when Stiles tried to sit on the bed next to him to read over his shoulder, and so Stiles had done his homework and picked up where he left off in World of Warcraft.

            Now he sits, supremely aware of the way that Derek is staring, and trying to convince himself that it’s just because Derek doesn’t play online MMOs. Stiles knows how confusing these things are to someone who has never played one, so he does his best to ignore Derek. To just keep flower picking, to just keep killing and skinning things to collect leather.

            And he’s good at it, at ignoring Derek, until Derek is hovering around behind him, looking over his shoulder. Until Derek’s breath is beside his ear as he leans over Stiles to look at the screen with narrowed eyes. Stiles takes his fingers off the keyboard, his hand off the mouse, and leans to the side to give Derek a look because maybe Derek doesn’t remember what personal space is.

            Derek draws back and fixes him with a look. “What are you doing?”

            “I’m… playing a game,” Stiles says cautiously. Because he is, and he can’t see why it would be a problem.

            Motioning to the screen, Derek frowns. “You’re… playing a werewolf.”

            Stiles looks to his screen even as he says: “No, it’s a wor- oh. Well, they don’t call it a werewolf, Derek. It’s called a worgen.”

            “It’s a werewolf,” Derek states plainly.

            Stiles looks at the wolfman- ahem, wolf _woman_ \- on his screen for a moment with pursed lips, then looks back to Derek. “Yes, it is.”

            “Do you somehow not have enough werewolves in your real life?” Derek asks, and Stiles realizes that Derek isn’t curious about the  _game_.

            Instead of answer the question directly, Stiles takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “You know, in this game, worgen were the  _bad_  guys for a really long time. The first ones were cursed and they worked for a not very nice archmage named Arugal. They killed a lot of people.”

            “Stiles…” Derek scowls, and Stiles holds up his hands in surrender.

            “No, but I mean, that’s now how it is anymore. There was a guy, Greymane, who got turned into a worgen and he found a way to control it, and he convinced everyone they were good guys still. That, you know, they could live amongst everyone else and it was ok. No more hunting,” he adds quietly.

            Derek pulls away from him then, eyes riveted to the screen and the tiny, wolfish creature awaiting command at its center.  _This_  was Stiles’ starting point.  _This_ is possibly why he did not abandon Scott when he was turned. This is, perhaps, is why he had not chased Derek out last night, why he was protecting Derek from his father and the hunters and the town. Not because Derek had threatened him, but because he believes his world could be like the one inside the screen.

            “It’s just a game,” Derek says gruffly, turning away to return to his book.

            Stiles feels his shoulders drop just a little at the dismissal, because it hurts, because he wants to reach out to Derek but he doesn’t know how. So he lets it fall back to their normal behavior, lets the moment slip away from him for now. Next time, he promises himself as his fingers splay over the keys. Next time, for sure.


	3. Allison x Erica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manicures with Allica.

            The night she was delivered to Derek’s doorstep was not one of her finest. Boyd had been dumped unceremoniously beside her, unconscious but breathing. Barely. She had woken first, which was unfortunate because she’d had to sit through over an hour of healing before Derek got home with Isaac. The two of them had gotten Boyd and Erica to their feet, got them stumbling through the front door of the Hale house of their own accord.

            Isaac had stayed pressed against their sides the rest of the night while Derek fetched water and food for them. She hadn’t even cared that the only place open for food was the greasy McDonald’s on the city’s main street. They had been  _­ravenous_ after all the healing. Derek had watched them eat and then gotten them both changes of clothes; their own were in bad shape, torn and bloody from fighting.

            “I need to go  _out,”_ Erica had spat the next morning, when she’d woken. They’d been cooped up in the building the Alpha pack had chosen as their prison, and being indoors made her uncomfortable.

            “Running,” Boyd agreed.

            “Ugh, not  _that_  out,” Erica replied, rolling her eyes. “You go running. I’m going in to town.“

            Isaac had pressed a shoulder to Boyd’s and offered to accompany him, which Boyd had accepted. Derek had agreed to drive Erica into town, and they spent the ride in silence until she began giving him directions. He didn’t even fuss about being ordered, which was probably in his best interest considering her mood. She didn’t  _want_  to have to claw his eyes out for being a jerk, but she’d give it a good go the second he wanted to complain about anything given what she had just been through at the hands of their rival pack.

            The door to the nail salon dinged when she entered and several of the workers looked her way with smiles. She swallowed thickly, because even though she knew the bruises were gone, the lacerations healed, the injuries all only memories now, she still felt vulnerable. She still wasn’t back to 100% mentally and while she didn’t  _need_  to have her nails manicured anymore, it was something civilized. Something calming.

            At least, it might have been, if Allison Argent were not sitting with her back to the door, one of her slender hands extended to a lady across the table from her.

            Erica balled her fists to keep from outing herself as a werewolf, closed her eyes to keep the orange hooded as she counted to ten and forced herself to calm down.

            She hadn’t seen Allison since…

            Straightening, Erica opened her eyes and held her head up. This was a public place. There were people all around. Allison wouldn’t be foolish enough to start anything somewhere like this, and getting close to her would be an excellent show on Erica’s part.

             _You haven’t scared me._

            The look on the Argent’s face, the little start she gave when she realized who had taken the table next to her, was priceless to Erica. She smiled, baring clean, white, human teeth to Allison before greeting the manicurist on the other side of the table and offering her one hand. The lady exclaimed how perfect her nails were and how soft her skin was, but Erica ignored her, attention focused on Allison.

            “Erica,” Allison greeted, voice wavering just the tiniest amount.

            Erica looked over. “Allison,“ she greeted. Then she cast a dramatic look around. “No bow?”

            Allison frowned at her disapprovingly, because they were in public, and she should know better. “Obviously you’re fine,“ she said tightly.

            It took every last bit of willpower Erica contained to not tear Allison’s throat out right then and there. “Fine?” she asked, low and dangerous, and was satisfied when Allison drew back a few inches, eyes widening. “ _Fine_?? After  _your father_  let us go, Boyd and I ran into a pack of  _alphas._ After what you and your  _completely psychotic_  grandfather put us through, we weren’t even a  _match_  for them. We spent the last three days being a  _plaything_  for them, being tortured to within an inch of our lives, fighting to get out.  _Fine_ isn’t the word I’d use to describe my current condition, Allison.”

            Allison didn’t have an answer for that and the lady holding Erica’s hand gave it a firm tug because Erica had begun leaning toward Allison as she spoke. Erica huffed once and then turned back, eyes following the swift, clean movement of the woman as she cleaned and prepared her hands. Either the ladies hadn’t understood the conversation or they didn’t care. They probably heard enough gossip that they tuned out conversation while working.

            The rasp of the nail file on her fingers was almost enough to drown out the words Allison next spoke. “I’m sorry.“

            Looking over, Erica raked her gaze over the other girl, over the way she kept her head slightly ducked, not looking back. She was  _embarrassed_ , Erica realized. She  _meant_  it. She looked away, back to her own hands, and wondered what an Argent had to go through to apologize to a werewolf. She must have missed a lot.

            "Doesn’t change what you did,” Erica said finally, softly this time.

            “I know,” Allison told her.

            Erica sighed, because she wanted to hold her heritage against her. She wanted to hold the entire Gerard incident against her, to hold her responsible for almost killing Boyd, for hurting Isaac and Derek, for putting all of them in danger because she was too busy having a breakdown to see the damage she was doing. But it was wrong, and Erica knew that on some level. Allison was still just as much of a kid as the rest of them. She’d still lost her aunt and her mother and, in a way, her grandfather. The world of the supernatural had been dumped on her just the same as the rest of them, with a heaping helping of your-entire-family-has-been-lying-to-you.

            So, Erica just shook her head once, and took a slow, deep breath. “It’s not easy for any of us, is it…”

            Allison glanced askew at her, then back down to her hands, watching the lick of the brush against her nails, watching the color bloom. “Not really,“ she replied. Then her brows drew together and she looked over. “Would you give it back?”

            She didn’t have to say the word aloud, Erica knew what she was talking about; the bite. Allison wanted to know if she would be human again, if she could. Erica wondered, briefly, who Allison was asking for; herself or one of the werewolves she could call friend if she weren’t an Argent.

            “No,” Erica said without reservation. Despite the crazy changes, despite the danger and the fear and the worry, it still felt like it was worth it. Like she could get away from what she had been, get away from a different sort of pain and fear, and live. “Derek gave me a choice. I’d make the same one again, if he asked.“

            “But you had to leave your home,” Allison pointed out. “Don’t you miss your family?“

            Erica twitched a sad smile. “Being human didn’t protect your family,” she said, even though it was cruel, because it was true and because she wanted Allison to understand.

            Allison pursed her lips in a frown. “That was mean.“

            Shrugging, Erica looked over. “It’s true.”

            “All done!” announced the lady in front of Allison, releasing her hand at last. “Once they are dry and you can go!“

            "Thank you,” Allison responded automatically, splaying her hands on the counter.

            They looked good, Erica thought. It was just a simple French manicure, but Allison had always looked good in natural colors. Erica found herself wondering if she’d look as good in other colors and had to push the thought aside; Allison was supposed to be the enemy here. One manicure at her side couldn’t change that.

            “For Scott?” Erica asked blandly.

            Allison cocked her head slightly, as if Erica should have known better. “No I… I’ve got too much to straighten out right now.“ She looked down, and Erica realized what she was going to say a moment before she said it. “I left him.”

            Suddenly very glad humans couldn’t hear heartbeats as hers skipped a beat, Erica managed to keep herself from smiling. If they were broken up, Allison was fair game. “What a shame,“ she said in a tone that made it clear she didn’t think it was.

            Allison shot her a look that said she didn’t believe Erica for a second, but then she shrugged. For a while she just watched Erica’s lady work, watched her shape and file and clean her nails as if it were completely fascinating. Erica knew that look, the one that said there was too much on someone’s mind to even think about so they just thought nothing at all instead, and so she just let her sit there.

            Eventually Allison decided that her nails were dry, and clambered to her feet. “Are you coming back to school?” she asked, and Erica didn’t miss the hopeful note.

            Erica smiled back. “We’ll see. Has it gotten any less boring?“

            Allison gave her a look. “Like anything in our lives is  _boring_?” she asked, and Erica actually cracked a smile.

            “Fair point,” Erica agreed. “See you Monday.“

            Much to the disapproval of the woman trying to work on her nails, Erica turned to watch Allison go. Monday was going to be very interesting indeed.


	4. Isaac x Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Scisaac

            The soft tap of a finger against his window rouses Scott. He squints against the intrusion, grasping at the tendrils of a dream but failing to hold on to sleep. Rolling over, he blinks blearily at the bright, frosted window and tries to determine who is standing outside his window at 7am on a Sunday. After a moment he realizes it’s Isaac, and rolls out of bed with a thump.

            Isaac is clambering through his window a heartbeat after he unlocks it, cold nose burying in his shoulder, his smile against Scott’s skin as he nudges Scott backward with his entire body, crowding him until Scott’s calves hit the bed. For an instant he resists the way Isaac presses into him, just to feel the pressure, just to feel Isaac’s flare of frustration, and then he wraps his arms around the other boy and topples them both onto the bed.

            “Well good morning to you too,” Scott says as Isaac makes himself comfortable atop him, straddling his hips, chests pressed together. He strokes softly down Isaac’s sides, resting his hands on his hips, and Isaac presses his nose against Scott’s jaw.

            “Merry Christmas,” Isaac whispers to Scott’s throat, sealing the words there with a kiss. “I got you something.”

            Scott rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the way his smile widens. “I told you not to,” he says.

            “It wouldn’t be fair, since you got something for me,” Isaac tells him with a grin.

            “How did you-”

            “I got something for your mom, too,” Isaac interrupts, drawing back to look Scott in the eyes. “As a… thank you. For having me over.”

            Scott lets go with one hand, brings it up to smooth his fingers down Isaac’s jawline, watches the way Isaac leans into the touch just slightly. “You shouldn’t be alone,” Scott tells him. “You should never be alone, but especially not today. You know there’s no thanks needed for that.”

            “I know,” Isaac concedes, turns his head to kiss Scott’s palm. “I know. I just… it’s been a while since Christmas was a good thing.”

            “Then we’ll make it extra good to make up for the times it wasn’t, okay?” Scott offers, tilting his head to the side.

            Isaac smiles, then leans down to kiss him, softly, sweetly. “Okay,” he mumbles against Scott’s lips.

            With one last, tight, full-body squeeze, Scott rolls Isaac off of him and gets up to shut the window. When he turns back, Isaac is sprawled on the bed, body curved  to fit long hands folded on his belly. For a moment Scott considers not going downstairs to help his mother at all, because this is an  _invitation_ , but his better judgment wins out in the end and he extends a hand to Isaac.

            “You’re a horrible tease,” he informs Isaac as he pulls him to his feet.

            “Can we test your theory later?” Isaac asks as Scott begins to herd him toward the door. “Please?” Scott rolls his eyes, but he smiles as he does it and thinks that this will probably be the best Christmas yet.


	5. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek, the first time they talk about children and decide to have a family together. Happy and Fluffy.

            The idea was glacially slow when it began, burrowing under his skin before he knew what it really was. He made a guess, the day that Stiles brought home that little flea-ridden, mangy kitten and Derek had to sit by and watch him care for it day after day. Seeing that soft smile on Stiles’ face, the way his longer fingers waved in the air above the now vibrant, playful kitten, Derek came to recognize the feeling.

            It was love and it was longing and it was pack.

            It was the lazy Sunday morning haze, the stroking of Stiles’ fingers down the line of his spine. It was the love the human practically radiated, warm under Derek’s palm, and how badly Derek wanted to shape something new with him. Create something solid with him, something lasting. Something _t_ heirs.

            “Stiles,” he said softly and he could hear the stir of Stiles’ heartbeat beneath his skin as he struggled closer to consciousness. Sleeping in was Stiles’ favorite indulgent luxury.

            “Mm?” Stiles hummed in answer, carding his fingers through Derek’s hair and kissing the crown of his head. “Breakfast?”

            “Do you ever think about kids?” Derek asked, before he lost the nerve.

            “Not for breakfast,” Stiles said seriously, not even missing a beat. Derek slapped his belly, but gently, because Stiles was chuckling at him.

            “I’m serious, Stiles,” he chided, rolling just enough that he could see Stiles’ face.

            Stiles scoffed, because he knew it was a serious question, he just didn’t have an answer. Not one like Derek was asking for anyway. “I do,” he admitted quietly. “I mean, I think about it. What it would be like to have a little… cheeky pup running around. But you know we can’t…” He just let it trail off there, because of course Derek knew. “I mean, unless I _r_ eally missed something in Werewolf Anatomy 101.”

            “You didn’t,” Derek assured him. “But… we could adopt one.”

            “Baby shopping,” Stiles said, like it was impressive. Derek rolled his eyes. “Okay then, boy or girl?”

            Derek looked at him them, because it sounded like he was serious, like he was asking for real and Derek just hadn’t given it that much thought. “I… I don’t know,” he said honestly.

            Stiles smiled softly, tilted his head in consideration. “I’d like to see you with a little girl,” he said finally. “I bet you’d have the biggest soft spot for a little girl. You’d sit at her table with her tiny little pink tea set and wear a big, pink, old-lady hat and a fluorescent boa. I will take so many pictures…”

            Derek groaned, but the noise caught in his throat because Stiles had said _w_ ill. “You really… you really think we could do it?” he asked hesitantly.

            “Yeah,” Stiles said, more a conclusion than an answer. “Okay, like, not today, we have plans with my father, but we can look into it. Together.”

            A slow smile spread across Derek’s face until he couldn’t help but lean forward, press his lips to Stiles’ in a quick kiss. Then he tucked himself back against Stiles’ side, resting his head on Stiles’ shoulder. “Together,” he agreed, closing his eyes.


	6. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek, hurt/comfort, BAMF!Stiles and/or D/s undertones.

            It took three solid kicks, but the heavy door finally gave, the lock tearing out the doorjamb as it cracked free. The sounds of the fight spilled into the empty warehouse, biting at their heels as Stiles stumbled into the darkness, Derek’s arm over his shoulder, his blood hot against Stiles’ side. An unearthly snarl echoed down the alley behind them, deep and furious, chased by the howls of the pack.

            Stiles slid Derek’s arm from around his neck, lowered him quickly to the cold cement, going down on one knee to try to gentle the fall. Derek dropped like a ragdoll as soon as Stiles released him, then rolled partway onto his side and spat out a mouthful of oily blood. Unfortunately Stiles couldn’t afford the time to pay attention to that; the sound of clawed paws thundering down the alley was getting ever closer.

            “Don’t go anywhere,” Stiles ordered, scrambling to his feet and shucking his jacket.

            He turned his palm up, baring his forearm so that he could slam one hand down onto his wrist. When he pulled his hand off again, blue light came with it, drawn up from the patterns inked into his skin. The Grim wolf appeared in the doorway just in time to receive a face full of runes that melted into its skin on contact, sending it screaming backward, trying to shake free of the spell.

            Stiles didn’t take the time to watch it writhe. He traced over another rune on his forearm, pulled the light from his skin and slammed it into the doorway. It spread, twisting and duplicating itself until it had formed a shield in front of Stiles, taking up most of the doorway. Stiles could hear Scott’s howl in the distance, knew he just had to buy time. The light was already fading from the Grim’s putrefying skin and it was on its feet an instant later, throwing itself at Stiles’ rune-shield. Cracks shot through the runes where its acidic blood splattered onto them and Stiles stepped backward.

            “Guardian,” Derek groaned weakly from behind him, barely audible over the shrieks of the beast. Stiles glanced back at Derek, then to the doorway.

            “I’m going to be useless for a week,” Stiles complained under his breath, but his fingers were already tracing through his shirt, pressing over the rune set that ran the length of his collarbone. It was one of the few that hooked directly into his very first rune, the one over his heart, the one tied to his life force.

            When he drew this one off the runes lit up red, twisting and distorting until they began to take a form. Stiles felt it drawing off of him, felt his strength flowing into it, his life powering it. It would recharge, he knew, but it was still terrifying, feeling it drain from him. This was not a rune he used; this was a rune that used him. It leapt from his hands, spilled into the room, all fire-red light and long jaws. It bore a stark resemblance to Derek’s full alpha form.

            It hit the Grim full force just as the beast broke through the shield, and the fight toppled back into the alley outside. Stiles watched the rune-wolf guardian for a moment before falling back, grabbing his coat from where he’d shed it. He fumbled in one pocket until he located the pouch of mountain ash. He circled Derek with it, made sure the line was unbroken.

            When he turned back to see the fight it was just in time to see Scott and Isaac batter into the side of the Grim with enough force to bowl it over, send it sprawling. Stiles’ rune-wolf shuddered and faded with their arrival. Isaac howled as the Grim sank its teeth into his shoulder, yanking hard. Stiles wavered, uncertain about whether he should join them or stay with Derek.

            “Stiles,” Derek murmured. Stiles froze, eyes locked on the fight, trying to calculate a next move even though his head was spinning, his vision sliding sideways. “Go-” Derek’s body rebelled and he turned, retching up black blood.

            Stiles groaned, eyes rolling, and he fell back to Derek’s side. Scott and Isaac had handled the second Grim, they could deal with the one Stiles had already injured. Derek needed help, before the creature’s venom went too deep for Stiles to reach. He dropped to his knees at Derek’s side, careful not to dislodge the ash circle; if Scott and Isaac failed it would serve to buy them a few minutes.

            Tugging open Derek’s shirt, Stiles averted his eyes momentarily from the mess that Derek’s chest had become. He had challenged the first Grim alone and it had turned his flesh to ribbons. Stiles took half a moment to fortify himself against the sight then opened his eyes. The wounds were rotting, unable to heal, infected from the creature’s unholy claws.

            “Hang in there, I got you,” Stiles murmured, tracing the rune on the back of his hand. It came off his skin in green and he traced the pattern in blood on Derek’s chest. Both runes disintegrated. Stiles closed his eyes, because it was hard to breathe, hard to focus with his head spinning. He tried again, the green light flaring before crumbling into glitter and fading.

            “Help them,” Derek told him as he tried a third time. This time the rune stuck, sunk into Derek’s skin. The lacerations on his chest began to change color, the black infection clearing just slightly.

            “They’re fine,” Stiles soothed. “They’ve got it, okay? Just relax.”

            “Stiles-”

            “Just shut up and take it,” Stiles growled, drawing the rune again, frustration causing tears to leap to his eyes. He should be able to fix this.

            A laugh stuck in Derek’s throat. “I’ve heard that before.”

            Stiles rolled his eyes. “Mature,” he replied, drawing the rune again. This time it stuck, flared brightly on Derek’s skin. “You’re going to hear it again when we get home, for scaring me like that.”

            Derek coughed, but it was dry this time. The torn flesh on his chest shimmered with green as the runes unbound under his skin. Infection seeped to the surface, oily venom sliding out around it and Stiles wiped tiredly at it with the sleeve of his jacket.

            “Almost clear,” Stiles told him softly, scooting closer. He carded fingers through Derek’s hair and forced a reassuring smile onto his lips. “I can’t believe you took that thing on by yourself. That was really dumb.”

            A shriek from outside cut through the air and they both glanced over. Scott stumbled through the doorway, blood dripping into his eye. Stiles caught his gaze and nodded, a gesture which Scott returned. Derek would be okay, and they had finished off the last Grim. Stiles could see Isaac, tearing it into pieces behind Scott, to be sure it couldn’t rise again. They would take with them the bone-mask it wore over its face, just to be sure.

            “Can you move him?” Scott asked quietly, trudging into the room. “We should get out of here before your dad shows up. People are gonna call about those screams.”

            Stiles looked down to Derek, whose chest was slowly knitting back together now that the infection had been drawn out. “Yeah, help me get him up. He’ll be fine in a bit.”

            As Scott bent to help Stiles get Derek to his feet, Isaac appeared in the doorway, the bloody bone mask gripped tight in one hand. He had wounds as well, infected, but they were not as bad as Derek’s. They would wait, for now. “I’ll get the other one and see you at the den.”

            Derek nodded. “Be careful,” he told him as they began to head for the door. It was going to be a long night of covering their tracks, but at least they’d made it.


	7. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek, Mechanic prompt!

            The purr of the Camaro approaching the drive stole his attention away from the beat up Jeep resting on blocks above him. He tilted his head, listening to the rumble of the engine, the scratch the tires on the gravel in the front of the shop. Part of him expected that someone was just turning around in his drive, but the squeal of brakes that assaulted his ears ended in a parking spot, and so Stiles rolled himself out from under the Jeep and clambered to his feet.

            He was alone in the shop since it was early on a Monday, so when he reached the front desk it was to find what he assumed was the camaro’s owner standing at the window, back to the register. Stiles couldn’t blame him; he’d keep an eye on a car like that too. The jingle of the door behind the counter drew the man’s attention and Stiles’ breath caught in his throat.

            “Hi,” the guy greeted, flashing a smile that did nothing to help Stiles breathe. Dark hair, rugged stubble, pale blue-green eyes, and a leather jacket that really had no place being worn this late in spring. He was __gorgeous__. “I’m in a bit of a jam.”

            Clearing his throat, Stiles finished wiping his hands on the red rag he carried and then tucked it back into his belt. “Yeah, I heard the scream of your dying brakes.” He really had meant to be nicer, but a car like that deserved better treatment. So what if Stiles liked cars better than people… cars wouldn’t leave you if you took care of them.

            The man winced. “I’ve been on the road for a while,” he excused, guilt practically radiating from him. Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Roadtrip. Sort of.”

            With a shrug, Stiles pulled out a few pages of paperwork and slid them across the counter to the man. “Fill these out, I’m going to go look her over. When you’re done, pull around back and bring her in through the first door on your left.”

            Leaving him to it, Stiles pushed out the front door and took in the sight of the vehicle parked in the closest space. It was sleek, black, and looked well cared for despite the brake issue. There was still water dripping from the underside, which told Stiles the guy had just taken her to be cleaned. He poked around at the hubcaps for a moment, ran a hand over the underside of the wheel well. His hand came away with murky water, and he shook his head. Must’ve been run through Sunshine Carwash down the street; their system never cleaned the wells properly.

            “She belonged to my father,” said the man from behind him. Stiles looked back to see him leaning against the door frame, papers in hand.

            Stiles didn’t ask about his father or why the man had the car now instead; his tone had said more than enough. “She’s a nice car,” Stiles told him instead. “Really nice, actually. Hell of a lot better than my junk heap. Bring her around back and then you can get out of here for an hour or two. I can call when she’s ready.”

            The man shifted and a strange look passed over his face. “Ah, well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to stick around. You know, watch.”

            It was a weird request, but Stiles didn’t really care. If the guy wanted to sit in the acrid workshop for a bit while he worked on the car, he wasn’t going to argue. The scenery would certainly be improved with the guy hanging out. “I don’t mind. I’m Stiles.”

            “Derek,” the guy said, another smile lighting his features. “Thanks, man.”

 

* * *

 

            Three months later, on a day when Stiles has the radio cranked up so loud he can barely hear himself think, he misses the sound of the Camaro pulling into the drive. He misses the smooth sound of working brakes as Derek parks, misses the jingle of the shop bell as Derek passes the front counter and opens the back door. He misses the clop of Derek’s boots as he crosses the garage.

            What he doesn’t miss is the sudden slip of his world as Derek grabs onto the edge of his creeper and rolls him out from under the Jeep. For a split second he is surprised, until he realizes who it is bending over him. Then he smiles, just in time for Derek’s lips to sink into his before he can even say good morning.

            In a valiant attempt to keep Derek’s smooth skin clean, Stiles holds onto the bumper of the Jeep instead of sliding his car-greased hands through Derek’s hair, instead of gripping onto the nape of his neck to draw him closer. The dust and grime on his hands would certainly leave interesting handprints and possibly require a shower.

            It must be the way he suddenly grins that alerts Derek, because before he can bring his hands down off the bumper, Derek has got his wrists in a firm hold above his head. He pulls back just enough that Stiles can feel him smiling. “Not again,” he chides. “I was just stopping by on my way to work to wish you a good morning.”

            Stiles lets his head clunk back against the creeper. “Fine,” he sighs. Then he raises one eyebrow as Derek releases him. “Then at least come back after work so I can show you a good evening.”

            Derek laughs, then kisses Stiles’ nose before standing. “Deal. See you at six?”

            “I’ll be here,” Stiles agrees. “Probably right here,” he adds, looking up at the undercarriage of his Jeep in dismay. “I’m gonna get this baby running and then we are going to have __so many__ adventures.”

            Shaking his head, Derek just smiles. “I can only imagine.”


	8. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek, Bedtime Stories!

            Stiles tucked her up against his side, felt her snuggle up to him with a wriggle of delight. For one so small, she was so warm, he found himself thinking for the millionth time. To have earned her love such a short time after she joined his little family was something he was proud of every day. Careful not to dislodge her, he pulled up one leg to support the other side of the book, holding it open with his free hand. His other arm he kept wrapped around her, holding her close.

            “Once upon a time there lived a goose that had seven little goslings. These she loved as dearly as a mother can,” he began, letting his voice fall into a storytelling cadence. She looked up at him, then down to the pages. He smiled. “One day, she had to go out to seek food. So she called her young ones to her and said: ‘Dear children, I am going to get you something to eat. Be good while I am away. And be sure, be very sure, not to open the door. Here in the forest lives a great wolf.”

            As Stiles read he could feel her relaxing against him, doe-brown eyes drooping until he was sure she was fast asleep. He smiled warmly, letting the book fall gently into his lap. Softly, so as not to wake her, he kissed the top of her head and then laid his own head back against the headboard. He still had a few minutes of alone time with her before Derek would come upstairs.

            So he just enjoyed the moment, listening to the quiet draw of her breath, the little huff as she dreamed. It was so peaceful that he had almost fallen asleep by the time Derek clomped up the stairs and peeked in through the doorway. Stiles didn’t have to open his eyes to see the eyeroll; he could hear it in the silence, in the absence of greeting.

            “Just say it,” Stiles murmured, fighting his grin.

            Derek snorted, hiding a laugh as he pushed the door all the way open, leaning against the frame. Stiles looked over and felt his heart flutter at the warm smile, even after years. “You know she can’t stay in our bed,” he told Stiles, as if Stiles didn’t already know that.

            “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Stiles dismissed. She was already stirring against his side, blinking sleepily. When she caught sight of Derek, it was like Christmas had come early and she wiggled out of Stiles’ grasp. Stiles shook his head, laid the Grimm’s Fairy Tales book on the nightstand.

            Derek picked her up when she reached him, put her on his hip and pressed his forehead to hers with a smile. Then he looked back to Stiles, to the book he was setting aside. “I assume you also know that puppies do not need to be read bedtime stories?” he asked, scratching behind the little husky’s ears. She licked his cheek, wiggling in his grasp. “Also, Grimm’s?”

            “What!” Stiles defended cheekily. “There’s a wolf! You’re a wolf, she’s practically a wolf.”

            Derek held out the squirming mess of cute in Stiles’ general direction. “This is not a wolf, Stiles.”

            Stiles rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help chuckling. “Okay, whatever, jerk. Put her in her bed and get over here.”


	9. Isaac x Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scisaac, serenading

            The first time it happened was in the woods, on a good, long run. The moon was not quite full but her pull was strong, dragging at their bones and their bellies until they felt the need to change coiled so tight within them that they had to let it out somehow. It was Scott’s idea, the running. He had done it since the start, since Allison, when he needed to think, when he needed to get away from people, long strides covering acres of forest floor before he stopped, panting.

            “Does it matter how far you run?” Isaac had asked once. _Can you outrun your problems?_

            “No,” Scott had told him. _If they’re not on your heels, they’re just waiting at home._

            They ran together anyway, sometimes shoulder-to-shoulder, sometimes apart by a mile or more. It didn’t matter. Always they could hear one another, by handprints or howls.

            But the howls that night were different. When Isaac cocked his head to listen, he did not hear ‘I’m here’ or 'I found something’ or any of the usual messages. This time Scott’s howl was long and low and varied, pitching up and pitching down to a cadence. This time Scott was not talking to him, Scott was _singing_ to him and he could feel it right down to the animal core that wanted so desperately to howl back.

            That night was the first night, but it was not the last. It became a soft game between them, when Scott could find a way to slip from Isaac’s presence, find a place to sing from, draw Isaac to him with songs so old only their wolves knew the tunes. He never howled back, only tracked the wolfsong until they met, until he slowed, approached the still softly murmuring Scott to shut him up with a kiss.

            Nose-to-nose, forehead-to-forehead, Isaac would smile softly, press his fingers lightly into the nape of Scott’s neck. “You know, normal people sing under windows when they want to serenade their lovers,” Isaac would chide him, breath warm against Scott’s lips.

            Every time Scott would grin, press their noses together gently, palms on Isaac’s waist. His reply was always the same. “We’re not normal people.”


	10. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles hears something outside his window, and when he investigates, he finds Derek.

            Stiles had once been certain that the phrase ‘things which go bump in the night’ was just a way to encompass all of the things little kids imagined were hiding under their beds or in their closets. When he was younger - well, who was he kidding, only half a year ago - he had been under the impression that these things, these nightmares and horrors, were all caged safely behind the veil of imaginary happenings. But six months ago his best friend had been bitten by an alpha werewolf that was on the run from the hunters-of-the-supernatural that were on his almost-literal tail after they’d murdered his entire family six years in Stiles’ past.

            And that was before the lizard-man the captain of his lacrosse team had become, before the magic he had, himself, performed at the club where they had caught said murderous lizard.

            That was before the pack of alpha werewolves that had been insinuating themselves into Beacon Hills in an attempt to get near Derek - the alpha werewolf Stiles was Definitely Not Dating but actually sometimes was  - and his pack of misfit betas.

            So when, in the depths of an otherwise beautiful June night, Stiles heard a loud 'bump’ outside his house, he was understandably unsurprised.

            He closed his eyes and counted to ten before pushing away from his desk and folding a bookmark into the page of the book that was supposed to be his homework. It was only Thursday, he thought. He’d decided just that afternoon that Thursdays seemed like a good chance to catch up on homework before his grades dipped and his father noticed that he was perhaps spending less time scrawling answers to chemistry and more time gallivanting around in the world of the supernatural. But if the supernatural had come almost literally knocking on his door, or at least bumping into the side of his garage at full tilt, then perhaps it was actually already Friday and Stiles could leave the homework for later.

            The hallway was not exactly a silent spectator with its creaking and groaning as he padded down the hall to make sure his father was still sleeping peacefully. Stiles sighed, because he really hated leaving his father in the dark, at least figuratively. There was so much going on that the sheriff could help him with if he only knew, but so much of it was also life threatening and Stiles had already lost one parents. Adding “orphan” to his list of problems was not the most savory of ideas.

            The garbage cans clattered onto the cement in front of the garage and Stiles took a deep, calming breath before closing his father’s bedroom door and scooting quickly down the stairs, across the front room, and out the front door. He didn’t bother with shoes; it had been bone dry for close to two weeks now and hotter than was strictly necessary in his opinion.

            When he rounded the edge of the garage, it was to find a pile of collapsed werewolf and a ten foot stripe of strewn garbage in two different directions. He recognized the leather jacket, the faded jeans, but he didn’t see the Camaro anywhere nearby. Derek must have walked, which wasn’t unusual on nice nights like the one Stiles had been having ten minutes ago.

            “Derek, what are you-”

            His question clipped in the middle when he saw the blood, glistening in the moonlight, coating the cement around Derek.

            Alphas his mind whispered even as he pulled out his phone and snatched Scott’s number from the recent call history. He dropped to his knees beside Derek as the phone began to ring.

            “Derek, come on,” Stiles murmured, shifting Derek’s head with one hand on his jaw, hoping desperately that he would just open his eyes.

            Please be okay…


	11. Melissa x Peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unspecified pairing, Bad Poetry

            His pen scratched gently on the paper, the marks left in the wake of the nib a flowing, angular script that was not out of place with the stationary. Pale flowers adorned the corners, their leaves wrapping vine-like along the borders of the writing area, traveling down to the space along the bottom where he would eventually sign his name. For now he was focused just on copying the words that mattered, transcribing them from the train wreck of scribbles and crossed out words, sentiments discarded as unworthy. This had to be perfect, it had to be _right_.

            It was quite some time and several crumpled pages later that he decided it was not going to get any better but at least he could stop making it worse. He creased the paper with a fingernail at the center, folding it over on itself before sliding it home into the crimson envelope. He dipped a finger into the glass of water that sat atop the motel table beside him and touched the nose of the envelope before pressing it closed at just the tip. Reaching over, he delicately picked up the lighter and stick of wax, recovered from the burned out shell of his past, and dripped just enough over the flap to seal it. Then he pressed the little metal stamp into the cooling wax, and smiled at the scripted “P” left behind.

            Talia had made such beautiful things when she was young.

            Taking a breath, he clambered to his feet and picked up the envelope as well as the long stemmed rose beside it. He twirled it between two fingers, raking his critical gaze over the petals. They matched the envelope perfectly.

            With a smile he snatched up the room key, dropped it into his pocket, and headed for the car.

 

* * *

 

            There was a long pause before the door clicked and pulled open, revealing the lovely brunette he had come to see. He offered her a charming smile and the rose, clasped between two of his fingers. “Good evening, Melissa,” he greeted smoothly.

            She flashed him an uncertain, pretty smile and accepted the rose, eyes lighting up when he flourished the notecard into view. Plucking it from his grasp, she turned it over to read her name on the front of it. Her fingers whispered over the rough surface, brushing across the word. She smiled again, more genuine this time, and met his eyes.

            “What’s this?” she asked curiously. It was not the right size to be a card or a letter.

            “Open it,” he suggested, an answering smile curling his lips.

            Looking back, she flipped the envelop and snuck a finger beneath the wax. It popped off, taking a little bit of the paper with it, and she slid the paper out like it was made of tissue paper instead of the heavy, beautiful cardstock. Her gaze flickered up to him before she unfolded the page, scanning over the words.

            “Why, Peter!” she said, dipping her head to give him a sly look. “Are you writing me poetry as an apology?”

            “Bad poetry,” he agreed, pointing with one finger to the words. He gave her an apologetic smile. “It’s the only kind I’m good at, unfortunately.”

            “It’s the best poetry I’ve ever received,” she admitted. “Which isn’t saying a lot, I suppose, considering it’s also the first poetry I’ve ever received.”

            “Ah.” Peter nodded in understanding. “That’s quite a shame, beautiful women such as yourself deserve good poetry.”

            She smiled, hoping her blush was not too prominent. “All right, sweet talker. What do you want?”

            “Want?” Peter asked innocently, then chuckled softly when she gave him the same look she gave her son when he was trying to pull the wool over her eyes. “I admit, I was hoping you would let me add dinner to the apology.”

            Her eyes narrowed for a moment, thumb tapping against the card in her hand as she thought. Finally she rolled her eyes, mostly at herself, and sighed. “Let me change,” she told him. “I’ve been cleaning all day.”

            She stepped aside, opening the door to him.

            He smiled, and stepped inside.


	12. Scott x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sciles, one is a teacher and the other is a student with a crush on him.

            As the third graders filed out of the classroom, Mr. McCall made sure to give each and every one of them a smile and a small, folded valentine with a piece of chocolate. There were superheroes on the fronts of the little red, pink and white cards and he had spent the night before writing little, personalized notes of encouragement to the kids in his class.

            He didn’t fail to notice the small, quiet child that hung back until he could be last in line to file out of the classroom. When Stiles approached his desk, he offered the boy a gentle smile and the final valentine in his basket. It warmed his heart to see Stiles’ face light up as he took it.

            “Happy Valentine’s Day, Stiles,” Scott told him.

            Stiles set his little backpack on the floor and flopped down onto his knees beside it. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mr. McCall,” he replied as he unzipped the pack.

            Scott leaned over to see what it was exactly that Stiles was doing. When Stiles withdrew a construction paper valentine from within the backpack, Scott couldn’t help but smile. The kids had all made little lunchsack valentine’s card bags and their parents had all filled out a folded, store-bought valentine card for all the kids on the list that had been sent home. But it looked as if Stiles had taken a little extra time for someone. Scott figured Lydia Martin would be the special recipient, up until the moment Stiles blushed straight to his ears and set the valentine on his desk.

            “My mom said I could ask anyone to be my valentine,” Stiles told him very seriously. “So I made this for you.”

            “Stiles,” Scott began, in the tone people used when someone’s done something they shouldn’t have. “This is very sweet, but isn’t there someone in class you’d like to give one of these to?”

            Stiles shrugged, leaning over to zip up his backpack. “No,” he said simply as he hefted it onto his shoulder a little over dramatically; Scott could see it was pretty empty and couldn’t have weighed much. “Have a good day, Mr. McCall.”

            Smiling, Scott nodded to his student. “You too, Stiles. I’ll see you tomorrow.”


	13. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Major Character Death
> 
> Scott calls Stiles telling him Derek is dead.
> 
> (if you'd like, this connects to the following chapter where he finds out Derek is alive)

            Once, in a textbook, Stiles read the term “flashbulb memory.” A flashbulb memory, it said, was an exceptionally vivid memory of an event, typically a surprising event. There were a few in his mind; the moment Scott first ran into him with his bike, the day they met. The moment his father got promoted and burst into the house to sweep his mother off her feet and swirl her around- he would always remember her peals of laughter. The moment his mother passed, the feel of her hand in his as her muscles relaxed and the sound of the flatline tone filling up the room.

            The moment he answered his cell and the words “Derek is dead” will be another.

            He remembers the disorientation as he backed up, a weak “what?” falling from his lips as he searched for the edge of his bed to sit down. The phone was warm in his hand and Scott’s voice sounded wrecked as he repeated himself.

            “I couldn’t save him,” Scott mumbled.

            “What?” Stiles breathed, because it seemed to the only word his brain could produce. He could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips, thumping in his chest so hard he was sure his father would hear it downstairs. “What happened?”

            “Fight,” Scott said, and Stiles recognized the exhaustion in his tone. He wasn’t surprised. It was well past one in the morning. “We fought the alphas.”

            Stiles scrubbed a hand down his face. Of course they fought the alphas. But Derek wouldn’t… he couldn’t just… why would Scott be alive if Derek wasn’t? He swallowed the lump in his throat and hoped his voice wasn’t too strained when he spoke. “And Derek?”

            “Fell,” Scott told him. There was a harsh noise on the other end, and Stiles thought maybe Scott was crying. It was hard to tell. “We need help, Stiles. I don’t think I can drive.”

            Shit. Shit shit shit. Of course they needed help, of course they were hurt. He would have to go pick them up, bring them to Scott’s mother or take them someplace safe. He would have to make sure that everyone else was alive, ensure that no one was going to do anything stupid, and then-

            He shoved the thought of going back for Derek out of his mind.

            The living first, Stiles, he reminded himself, trying to stay calm as he got to his feet. “Where are you?” he asked, snatching his keys from the desk.

            “Briarlane Mall.” Scott’s reply was more a sigh of relief than anything.

            “Is it safe for you to stay put?” Stiles asked, shoving his feet into his shoes, shouldering his phone so he could tie them. “I’ll come get you.”

            “Yeah,” Scott told him. “Yeah, we’re safe. They just… they just left us. Deaucalion just… just get here, Stiles. Please hurry.”

            “You got it, buddy, I’m on my way.” The phone went dead in his hand and he paused, forcing himself to take a few deep, calming breaths against the panic attack welling in his chest.

            Derek was dead.

            Gone.

            He allowed himself only a moment to feel the clench of his heart in his chest, the pain of loss, before he closed it off, set it aside for later. It had to be later; the living came first. It was how he had survived his mother’s death, by taking care of the living, and it was how he was going to survive this too.


	14. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Stiles finally finds out Derek is alive

            There’s not even a phone call. No warning, no phone call, no note. Stiles is bone weary from the horribly failed bus trip to their away meet, but he practically man-handles a protesting Scott into the front of his Jeep after telling Boyd and Isaac in no uncertain terms that they were getting into his backseat. He drives them all over to the loft, because he needs everyone in one place and that is the only place he knows that Peter will return.

            Peter, who came back from the dead.

            Peter, who may be their only chance at bringing Derek back.

            So Stiles herds three irritated werewolves in front of him, into the elevator, and out of the elevator, and into the hall outside of Derek’s loft. He makes Isaac open the door because he still has a key because, on some level, he still trusts that he will be able to come back to Derek’s pack. That Derek will not chase him away again, if he can just stay strong. Stiles knows better; Stiles can see that Isaac is cleaving onto Scott, onto Scott’s hold over him as the blooming alpha he is becoming. But he won’t say so, because he needs Isaac to open the door.

            The place smells as damp as old as ever as Stiles ensures all three of them have entered before him, and the irritated sound he makes when he runs into them where they’ve stopped inside the door is lost in the wash of emotion he feels when he sees __why.__

            Because Derek is just sitting there at the table, one arm stretched out long, the other curled atop the map he was looking at until they all just barged in. Cora is standing off to one side by the windows, staring out, and Peter is perched on the spiral staircase with a book. Stiles thinks all of them, everyone there, must be able to hear the way his heart as stopped. He can’t seem to pry his eyes away from Derek’s.

            “You-” Stiles begins, not sure where he means to take the sentence. Derek is __alive__. He’s __alive__ and he’s __breathing__ and he’s just __here and__ \- “You asshole.”

            Everyone’s brows raise a little, except for Boyd’s, because he’s the only one who has Stiles figured out. He’s the only one who’s figured out why Stiles is hanging around, because he’s the only one who knows Stiles but hasn’t been there to see the slow development over the summer months. It’s the sort of obvious that isn’t very obvious at all, if you’re close to it.

            “Excuse me?” Derek asks, sitting up a little straighter.

            Stiles manages to resist chucking his phone at Derek’s head, though he couldn’t say if it was because he thought Derek would catch it or because he thought Derek wouldn’t. “You __asshole__ ,” he repeated. “You didn’t think to __call__ any of us? Let us know you were okay?”

            “He called me,” Peter said, very unhelpfully. Stiles didn’t bother giving the comment the respect of a response. It was going to be a long night.


	15. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Watching you sleep"

            She drives him home, when the bleeding stops and the dizziness passes. She stays long enough to make sure he gets in the door, but she doesn’t press to stay. A part of him is glad for it. A part of him feels bad she was dragged into it at all. So she drives him home and he says goodnight to her, and he waits until he hears the purr of her little car’s engine before he locks the door and lets himself think about the pervasive scent clinging to every surface of his loft.

            His side still aches if he breathes wrong and he thinks it will probably be a few days before the throbbing in his head subsides. He’s already spent too much time wondering why no one came down to fetch him, so he leaves the worry resting at the back of his mind and picks up the newer problem: how Stiles got a key to his apartment.

            Because Stiles must have gotten a key. Derek knows he locked the door behind him when they left, and he knows that the door was unlocked when he arrived. The scent of the other guy is everywhere and Derek doesn’t have to ask to know that Stiles touched everything. Derek can’t even guess why; this wasn’t the first time Stiles had been in the loft. It wasn’t even the fifth or sixth or fifteenth time. Stiles had been in an out all summer, and he had never touched more than necessary.

            After a brief search - because it’s impossible to pin down the most recent scent trail, not with it smelling the same everywhere - he finds Stiles curled up, fast asleep in Derek’s bed. He hasn’t managed to insinuate himself beneath the covers, but he has made a nest on top of them and he is very pointedly on Derek’s side of the bed. Technically both sides are Derek’s side of the bed, but Derek only ever sleeps on the right side, the side where Stiles has his face smushed into Derek’s pillow, breathing gently.

            When he opens his mouth to wake Stiles, he finds that he has no words. It is a soft realization, the thought that he doesn’t want to wake Stiles. So for once he indulges himself. He doesn’t say a word, merely listening to the heavy, steady beat of Stiles’ heart, tracing his eyes over the lines of Stiles’ body, over the spikes of his hair. He can smell the salt of dried tears on Stiles’ skin, and a small, warm flutter buzzes in his chest.

            He knows why Stiles is here, now.

            Moving forward, he bends enough to take a seat on the edge of the bed. It dips beneath him, the motion barely disturbing the other side of the bed. It’s a nice mattress, but not quite nice enough to keep from waking the other occupant.

            Stiles blinks at him, fuzzy and red-eyed. Derek can hear his breath catch in his throat, and he offers a small smile because he has no words that will make anything better. After a moment, Stiles’ brow scrunches and he pulls one hand from beneath the pillow, stretching it out until his fingertips brush Derek’s arm. His eyes shoot up from the point of contact to meet Derek’s gaze.

            “You’re alive,” he murmurs, and it is so broken, so relieved, that Derek cannot help the small, choked laugh that bubbles up.

            “I’m alive,” he agrees. He lays a hand on Stiles’ chest when he makes as though to sit up. “Just… don’t. It’s been a long day.”

            “But-”

            “Stiles.” Derek says it with such finality that Stiles just lays back down and watches as Derek climbs into bed.

            Derek can feel Stiles’ eyes on him as he stretches out beside him and he tries not to wince at the pain of extending skin riddled with injuries. They are healing, though slowly. When he finally closes his eyes, the throbbing in his skull diminishes. He doesn’t open them, even when Stiles’ fingers tentatively curl over his own.

            “I thought you were dead,” Stiles breathes.

            Derek sighs. “Just go to sleep, Stiles.”

            Though he doesn’t wake, he knows that Stiles disobeys. He knows that Stiles stays up until the first rays of morning light seep into the room, just keeping watch over him. He doesn’t need a guardian, of course, but just this once he is glad for it.


	16. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's the only way to keep you safe."

            “It’s the only way to keep you safe, Stiles,” Derek reasons.

            Stiles rolls his eyes. “No, the only way to keep me safe is to go back in time,” Stiles shoots back, voice taking on that steely note of irritation Derek hates. It means he’s probably going to lose whatever they are arguing about. “I’m already involved in this. Keeping me on _lockdown_ isn’t going to do anything but make me bait.”

            “Having you here will mean I can keep a closer eye on you in case Gerard shows up,” Derek tells him. “No one is close enough to your house to do anything.”

            “My house is full of guns!” Stiles exclaims. “If it’s that big of a concern, I can get some exploding bullets or something from Allison’s dad. Make Molotov cocktails with Lydia or something- that worked pretty well on your uncle. I don’t need to relocate my entire life for one mutant werewolf!”

            “Why are you so opposed to this?” Derek asks, but it’s softer than the accusation it carries. He doesn’t like the way Stiles won’t meet his eyes after he asks it.

            When Stiles’ eyes close, his heartbeat picks up, but Derek knows it is not the sound of lying. It is the sound of fear, and he waits patiently to hear the truth now. An irritated sigh bursts out of Stiles before he rolls his eyes and focuses on something just to the right of Derek. “It’s just- moving in here would be kind of a big deal, you know? Even if my dad knows now, that doesn’t mean he’s okay with it and I… I dunno. It’s hard to take it back if it goes wrong. And like, it goes wrong for a lot of people, right? Moving in together? It messes up things.”

            Derek doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just reaches out, drawing Stiles into a hug that is fiercely returned. “Okay,” Derek tells him. “Okay. You don’t have to move in if you don’t want to; you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But I’d feel better if you were closer.”

            “Okay,” Stiles mumbled into the pad of his shoulder. He pressed his nose against Derek’s collarbone. “I guess I can stay more often.

            Derek just smiled and laid a kiss to Stiles’ temple. "I’d like that.”

 


	17. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek finds Stiles in the woods, dripping wet from a passing shower, and cannot take his eyes off his heaving chest.

            Derek loved the way his long strides ate up the ground beneath him, blurring the worlds around him as he ran. For once he was not running from anything, but he wasn’t running to anything, either. A sudden thunderstorm had rolled in on the heels of a cold front and the rain that sheeted down from the sky was the best sort. The thick droplets were soft on his fur, slicking cold trails from his spin to his heaving flanks. It wouldn’t last long and Derek had just taken off without a word, heading for the forest.

            It felt good. It felt _free_ , just running for the sake of running.

            He slowed as the rain began to let up, trotting to a stop in the middle of his family’s old property. Lifting his nose to the sky, he drew in the scent of the forest, of the wet leaves beneath his shifted paws, the worms wriggling to the surface for air, the damp of the bark all around him. It was all dirt and water and life and decay and so very perfectly not everything he’d been dealing with for the past four months.

            Raising his jaw to the sky, he howled, long and low.

            There was no one to howl back, which perhaps was why he was so startled to hear the thin, reedy answer drifting to him on the swirling breeze. It was coming from the entrance of the preserve. Only a heartbeat of hesitation preceded the bunch of Derek’s muscles as he turned and began to race back.

            As he neared the entrance, he caught the snap-crackle of someone bumbling through the woods on foot. He veered toward it, evening out his loping strides into a shallow, silent trot. The scent tickling his nose was full of sweat and wet cloth and familiarity. When he realized who was in his woods, he changed course enough that he would be coming up in front of Stiles rather than behind him.

            Still, it was Derek who spotted Stiles first. His t-shirt clung wetly to his body, chest heaving from the run he’d made toward Derek’s howl. Derek’s mouth went dry and he froze, watching as Stiles jogged forward, not yet noticing him. If Derek didn’t move, didn’t speak or draw attention to himself, he wondered if Stiles would walk right past him. He wondered how long Stiles would stay in the woods looking for him and if he could follow like a ghost, watching.

            And then Stiles was raising both hands to cup around his mouth like a megaphone, and the howl he gave prickled all of the fur along Derek’s flanks. He raised his jaw as well, howled back, but soft, just enough to startle Stiles, alert him, but not enough to deafen him.

            Stiles jumped at the sudden, close sound, but a smile spread warm onto his lips. “Hey Fuzzbutt,” he greeted, now moving toward Derek. “You disappeared.”

            Derek didn’t answer; he wasn’t about to shift back just to say hello, especially considering he had taken full alpha form to go running and his clothes were still at the apartment….


	18. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek goes to New York for some reason and Stiles is left behind to play packmom but the pack isn’t really doing that well and Stiles calls/texts Derek what he should do?

            Derek shucked his backpack onto the motel bed and scrubbed a hand through his hair, not caring that it stuck up at odd angles the second he did so. For once he was  _alone_ , which used to be such a  _bad_  thing he could hardly believe the wash of relief that practically bled from him. It was just a weekend, and he knew he would miss the pack in a few more hours when it was time to sleep and he had no one to check on and no one to check on him. He would miss them when he woke, when he microwaved a bowl of oatmeal and sat on the end of the bed and ate by himself.

            But for now, it was  _ _quiet__  and he hadn’t heard  _ _quiet__  in… months. He’d forgotten how numbingly loud quiet was.

            The annoyance of his phone’s “text MESSAGE!” - thank you, Stiles, you little shit - jangling through the still motel air startled him. He fumbled in the side pocket of the backpack, extracting the phone and ran his finger across it. Of course it was from Stiles, because it was always from Stiles, because Stiles was the only one who thought it was hilarious that he could swipe faster than Derek could check the messages.

****Stiles** **   
__Hypothetically how fast could you get back here?_ _

            Derek growled, rough and breathy, because he  _ _just got here__. It had been forty hours of driving, because planes made him nervous and he wasn’t about to leave the Camaro in the care of the pack while he left for a weekend. So he just-

****To Stiles** **   
__I’m not coming back, Stiles. What did you do?_ _

            He waited a moment, and then his phone bleated out “text MESSAGE!” in a pitch-shifted, squeaky voice.

****Stiles** **   
__Why do you assume I did it?_ _

****To Stiles** **   
__Because you always “did it”._ _

****Stiles** **   
__Well I didn’t. Boyd did. But seriously, how long?_ _

            Derek sighed, taking a moment to calm himself, but before he could type a response, his phone squealed again.

****Stiles** **   
__Because it’s possible that Boyd is currently a kitten, and Erica left to find the witch that hypothetically did it, and Scott went to stop them, and Isaac says they should have been back by now, and we’re not sure the ferrets on the doorstep are not them, and you might need to come home, I don’t know what to do._ _

            Derek’s phone made a weird chime he had only heard a couple of times, and a picture message popped up before he had even finished reading the long-ass text. A pair of ferrets, heads tilted quizzically at the camera, sat on the doormat to his apartment, one blonde and one brown. For a long moment, Derek stared at the photo, a million possible logical responses coming and going, most of them angry, before he finally composed his response.

 ** **To Stiles****  
 _ _“It’s a couple days, Derek. Just go to New York, Derek. We’ll be fine, Derek. I can handle it, Derek.” Good luck, Stiles. See you Tuesda__ y.

            Then he turned off the phone, tucking it into the side pocket of his backpack, and smiled.


	19. Gen Stilinski Family Kid!Fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheriff Stilinski had a one-night stand on a conference some time ago. Now there’s an abandoned baby on their doorstep. A werewolf baby. Stiles suddenly isn’t an only child anymore

            When the doorbell rang, Stiles scrambled to his feet and cut his dad off in the hallway, mumbling something vague about friends and expecting. Derek was supposed to have been here twenty minutes ago, and the last thing Stiles needed today was his father questioning why  _Derek Hale_  was picking him up on a nice Saturday afternoon. The last thing he needed was his father and Derek talking at all ever, but definitely not talking about any plans the werewolf may or may not have had with the sheriff’s underage son.

            So when Stiles tore open the front door, admittedly more excited than the cranky expression on his face, he was caught off guard by the lack of surly werewolf on his doorstep. Stiles stepped forward, up to the edge of the frame and looked left and right, wondering if some punk little kid was playing the ring-and-run game Stiles and Scott had excelled at as nine year olds, but there was no one in sight.

            That was when Stiles heard the soft coo, and noticed the baby carseat hunkered down at his feet, complete with tiny, wide-eyed baby. For a moment Stiles just stared at it, and then he backed up, closed the door, counted to ten, and checked.

            Still there.

            Well it certainly wasn’t his, and he was particularly ill-equipped to handle anything shorter than 3 feet tall, so he did the only thing he could think to do: “DAD!”

            The sound of a chair on linoleum scraped through the house and then his father was walking down the front hall toward him. Stiles drew open the door fully, and his father froze, eyes widening. “Stiles-”

            “Not me!” Stiles protested, holding up both his hands as if to show he wasn’t holding evidence. This time. “Wrong house? Is this even legal?”

            “What does the note say?” his father asked, moving hesitantly closer.

            “Note?” Stiles echoed, whipping around to look. Sure enough, bound to the arching handle was a folded note. Reaching down, Stiles plucked it from the ribbon and opened it. His father didn’t even try to get close enough to see.

             _ _Her name is Samantha. She’ll be six months old August 9th. I can’t keep her safe, John. I’m sorry.__

            There was no signature, no identification. Stiles looked up to his dad, who was staring mutely at the baby on the porch. Following his gaze, Stiles looked back to the baby - to  _ _Samantha__  - and then he passed the note to his father, who took it numbly. Then Stiles was on his knees beside the basket, waggling a finger in front of Samantha’s big blue eyes. She gave a delighted squeal and grabbed for it, and after just a second or two, Stiles let her wrap a tiny, soft, pink hand around it. He smiled.

            “We can keep you safe,” he murmured, gooey and high, and then turned to look at his father, who was watching like he expected some sort of cataclysm. “Can’t we?”

            “I- We- Aren’t you-” his father said, then took a deep breath. “Are you even going to ask?”

            Stiles shook his head, and the edge of a smile crept onto one corner of his mouth. “I figure this gives me unlimited ‘get out of jail free’ cards for at least a month when it comes to Derek,” Stiles told him cheerfully. Then he turned his attention back to Samantha, who was very intently trying to gum his finger.

            When he began to slide his finger from her grasp, she looked up at him, blue eyes flashing bright amber for just a second, and Stiles swore he felt his heart stop. He knew that color. He turned to look at his father so fast he nearly got whiplash.

            “On second thought, maybe I do have a few questions…”


	20. Allison x Lydia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allyida, Fluffy shopping scene

            The local mall was never crowded on Wednesday nights. Allison was not big on malls and she was even less big on crowded malls, and so Lydiadidn’t venture suggestions about Fridays or Saturdays or Sundays at the mall. It was always Wednesday, when there was room to move and Allison didn’t feel so jumpy about not being able to see all the faces and Lydia could forget the way Jackson used to put himself between her and anyone who might bump into her. It was unconscious and endearing and she didn’t miss it. She told herself she didn’t miss it, anyway, as she threaded her fingers into Allison’s and tugged her into the nearest store.

            It was an accessories store, the sort Jackson had hated. Allison loved them, though, and that warm, happy feeling that had been creeping into Lyida’s chest over the past month gave its wings a flutter. Allison grinned and held up ridiculously large, gaudy earrings to her ears and Lydiarolled her eyes.

            “Aren’t you supposed to have fashion sense?” she asked, words laced thick with amusement.

            Allison made a mock offended face, smiling. “I could pull them off,” she assured Lydia. “Just have to find the right outfit to go with them!”

            Lydia gave her a look stuck somewhere between __yeah right__ and __put them back__ and turned away from her, fingers dancing over a plastic tree of bracelets and necklaces. “How about we find something that isn’t that weird-ass wolf necklace you’re so fond of, for this weekend?” she suggested, glancing over her shoulder.

            Allison’s fingers brushed over her sternum, even though Kate’s necklace wasn’t there anymore, even though she had shoved it into the deepest recesses of a dresser drawer. She caught the look of apology in Lydia’s eyes, but they didn’t talk about it. Lydia was still coping with all the supernatural bullshit that had begun to consume their lives, and Wednesday nights at the mall were supposed to be their escape to normalcy.

            “Sure,” she said, joining Lydia at the tree. Together they thumbed through the jewelry, and Allison had a handful of little plastic cards in her hand before they were three minutes into looking.

            Finally Lydia plucked a long silver chain from the rack and held it up for Allison’s inspection. When Allison’s eyes lit up, Lydia smiled and exchanged it for the pile Allison had collected. While Allison turned the pendant over in her hand, Lydia replaced the items they were not going to purchase, watching from the corner of her eye as Allison traced a finger over the silver.

            “I think it’s supposed to go with one of these,” Lydia remarked quietly, pointing to one of the gemmed, hollow heart necklaces that dotted the rack. Allison thought about it for a moment, and then raised an eyebrow to Lydia in question. Lydia just shrugged, like it didn’t matter, but Allison was her best friend, was __more__ than a best friend, and she knew that look.

            Reaching out, she plucked up one of the hearts, a small silver one with pale blue gems the color of Lydia’s birthstone set into the edges, and headed immediately to the counter before Lydia could protest. With a huff, Lydia followed behind her. She watched the transaction, watched Allison sneak little devious smirks at her until the cashier had handed her the change and the two necklaces without a bag at Allison’s insistence.

            Without even bothering to leave the store, Allison cracked both necklaces from their cards. She set the first, the one Lydia had chosen for her, upon the counter, and under Lydia’s confused stare, fastened the blue heart necklace around her own neck. Then she slid the other off, unfastened the latch, and smoothed her fingers over Lydia’s neck, the chain drawing along behind them. She fastened it there, and fluffed Lydia’s hair so none of it was trapped.

            “There,” she said with an air of finality, like a job well done, and Lydia gave her a very slight head tilt.

            Lydia reached up as she looked down, rubbed her fingers over the arrow pendant as if she couldn’t determine what it was. “Cute,” she said, like it wasn’t cute at all. “But you’re the archer, not me.”

            Allison smiled, pleased, and leaned over to press a kiss to Lydia’s cheek. “The arrow only stays with the archer ‘til it hits its mark,” she murmured.            

            Lydia rolled her eyes. “Cute,” she said again, but this time she meant it.


	21. Derek + Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek had werewolf friends in New York, and they come to Beacon Hills because they are worried about him, because he never came back, and they're very protective of him.

            It might not have seemed out of place, might have blended in with the rest of the traffic, with the rest of the sleek sports cars. It might even have blended in with the restorations that money drove around on weekends, had it been a weekend. But it was a Tuesday afternoon that Derek first caught the familiar sound of the 1955 Mustang cruising the edge of Beacon Hills, and he recognized the popping of the acceleration.

            Isaac asked what was wrong, when Derek trailed off midsentence, but Derek brushed it off with a shake of his head. New York was a long way from California, and there was no way. Of course there was no way, and so he brushed it off and smiled at Isaac, and said “Again.”

            By Thursday evening he was convinced he was going crazy. He could smell them, just the faintest traces, caught on corners, like they’d drawn their fingers over the bricks of passing buildings, like they’d rubbed on doors going through them. Matt, on the counter at the bank. The faintest wisp of Belle in the restroom at the local Starbucks. Julie and Paul, nearly inseparable in the high school’s parking lot, dragged heavy across half a dozen cars. It was driving him mad, making him paranoid.

            There were only so many wolves one small town could contain.

            Saturday morning, Derek woke to the prickle of __presence__ in his apartment. He could smell cooking bacon and eggs, caught the faint murmur of conversation so quiet even werewolf hearing was not good enough to discern words from his bedroom. With a snarl, he threw on enough clothes to be decent, and tore into the kitchenette with his anger burning red in his eyes.

            He was met with a lax smile and a round of achingly familiar laughter. “Good morning,” was the first greeting, smooth and low and clear from the beta standing at his stove, pushing scrambled eggs around in one of his pans. Pale blue eyes turned to him from beneath a shock of golden hair.

            “Paul,” Derek breathed, chest tight as he stood awkwardly in his own doorway, like he was the one who didn’t belong. His eyes tracked to the others, to the blue-eyed blonde that was Paul’s sister, to the dark-skinned beauty with pale green eyes, to the leader of the group. Belle, who smiled and flashed red eyes at him from beneath sandy brown bangs.

            “We thought you were never going to wake up,” Matt said, humor twinkling in his green eyes. “After we came so far to find you!”

            “You found me,” Derek said and it wasn’t clear if it was a question or an answer.

            Belle smiled. “Of course we found you, numbnuts,” she told him, exasperated but smiling. “You get some phone call about your sister and you just disappear? Not even a goodbye? We figured you could use some help.” Her New York accent seemed so out of place in his Californian home. It settled into him like a rescue.

            “I’m sorry.” His throat closed on the words. He had thought he’d never see them again, the pack that had taken him in when Laura stormed off, came back to Beacon Hills alone. “I didn’t want to drag you guys into my mess.”

            The group laughed, the sound like a balm on wounds inside Derek he hadn’t even remembered earning. He began to relax, began to remember the easiness that emanated like cloud around these four. “Did you find her? Your sister,” Julie asked, soft and curious.

            Derek’s gaze fell, and he could smell the change in the group, the sadness that flooded them. They had known Laura. They had been her friends, too. “I found part of her,” he murmured, broken.

            Belle rose from her seat at his table, wrapped him up in a hug that was completed only when everyone else crowded in, offering touch and support as only a real pack did. He might not have belonged to them anymore, but it felt good. It felt __right__ like nothing had felt right in months. “We’re sorry, Derek,” Belle breathed against his shoulder, tightening the hug for an instant before the group dispersed around them. Paul began to dish out food to the plates lined up on the counter, like food might fix it.

            After a moment, Derek took a seat beside Julie, returned the smile she flashed at him, and stole a piece of bacon from her plate. It was his bacon anyway, he reasoned, but he knew she would have let him even if it wasn’t. Julie liked his smile. Julie had liked a lot of things about him, once upon a time.

            “We should have come sooner,” Matt said, to the room, to the blank air, because he couldn’t disrespect his alpha or Derek by saying it to them directly. “You’re very hard to track, you know.”

            “I meant to be,” Derek huffed. “You guys don’t need any of this. You have it good in New York. I can’t let you stay here.”

“You’re neck deep in Deucalion’s pack,” Belle said, raising an eyebrow. “He tracked you all the way from New York, baby. You think we’re going to let him have you just because you left us? That guy’s nothing but trouble, but he’s not __your__ trouble alone.”

            “Belle’s got a bone to pick with those twins,” Julie announced impishly, flashing a smile that was more teeth than lip to Belle. The alpha scowled, but she didn’t argue, just looked to Derek and shrugged.

            “Beautiful creatures, those two,” she said simply, grinning. “Who was I to say no? Eat your breakfast, Hale. We’ll figure the rest out once you’re done. Maybe you can introduce us to your pack. It’s good to see a little red in those baby blues of yours, you know? You deserve it.”

            Derek didn’t have to force the smile that crept onto his lips, flushing his cheeks a little at the praise. “You’d better put on some more food, Paul,” Derek suggested. “They get here around nine on Saturdays. And they’re not all mine and they’re not all wolves, and they’re bitchy as fuck when they’re tired.”

            Belle laughed and smiles brightened the faces of the others. She quieted with a roll of her eyes and a little shake of her head. “Perfect, they sound just like you two years ago.”

            Derek just snorted with good humor and dug into his breakfast.


	22. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Major Character Death
> 
> Sterek, celebrating the birth of their first grandchild

            Stiles sighed heavily, clambering down onto the grass beside him. It was a warm day, a beautiful day, a day well worth being outside. Sunlight streamed down, golden light dancing over the too-green grass beneath him. He was glad to be out of the hospital, despite his worry over Abby. The doctors had assured them that she was going to be fine, that the baby was healthy and fine, and that both would probably survive the entire pack not being in the room at once.

            So Stiles had ushered everyone out of the room, left Boyd standing guard outside the room. Boyd was getting cranky the older he got, voicing his complaint with a scrunched nose. “We’re in a __hospital__ , Stiles. Nothing’s coming to get your grandkid.”

            Stiles had whapped him upside the head for the insubordination, and politely reminded him of the aswang that had turned up nearly fifteen years ago, when Abby was little. Though Boyd grumbled, he nodded, standing straighter and taking his duty seriously. Stiles had tapped Isaac’s head when he passed, a silent reminder not to get caught hiding his grin behind his hand because Boyd would make him pay for it later.

            “I’m going to let Derek know,” he’d said, short and clipped, and no one had objected when he disappeared.

* * *

 

            Carefully, Stiles unwrapped the head of the champagne bottle, popped the cork with a bang that had it shooting off across the grass. The liquid fizzed up and Stiles let it pour over into one of the two glasses he had brought with him, tipping it over into the second as it died down. The champagne sparkled beautifully in the simple wine glasses and he smiled, the slight creases worn around his eyes crinkling. He set one down, slid it over, and then wrapped his fingers around the other.

            “Doctor says she’ll be fine, she’s doing great. Kind of to be expected,” Stiles said, huffing a little laugh. Freaking werewolves. Daughter of an alpha. There was no way Abby would have come out of this any other way, but Stiles also knew that Derek worried irrationally. Stiles couldn’t blame him. “You know, she decided at the last second. On a name.”

            A beat of silence, heavy with waiting.

            “Talia,” Stiles informed him. “Like your mom. She’s got the same blue eyes as you, I mean I know babies all have blue eyes pretty much, but I think she’ll keep them. Abby did.”

            Stiles looked over to the untouched champagne glass, stretched to clink the lip of his own against it before leaning back against the stone behind him. “They should get released tomorrow, maybe the day after if we can swing it. I’ll make sure to bring them to visit, jerk. We can have a proper celebration then, with the whole pack instead of just us, and Abby can tell you Talia’s middle name. It’s really awful, just like yours.”

            An insistent, annoying tone jangled the phone in his pocket, and Stiles sighed. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, debating over whether he wanted to answer that. But it was Isaac’s ring tone and Isaac wouldn’t call him if it wasn’t the sort of important that deserved a capital I. So he dug the phone out, swiped the screen, and put it to his ear.

            “She’s asking for you,” Isaac told him in a rush, before Stiles could even say hello.

            “Okay,” Stiles said. “Everything okay?”

            “Yeah, yeah,” Isaac confirmed, breathing out in a sigh. “She’s just very insistent Grandpa be the one to bring her the kid. The nurses are in a tizzy and we didn’t want to disturb you but… well. You know Abby.”

            “Yeah,” Stiles agreed with a grin, because he did know his daughter, knew that she was Derek’s blood and stubborn attitude. “Hold it together, then, and I’ll be there in five.”

            Isaac didn’t bother with a goodbye, the line just went dead in his hands. Stiles sighed and drained the small glass of champagne in one go before setting the bottle in the grass on its side. Golden liquid spilled out, bubbling up, and Stiles dumped the other glass alongside it. The glasses clinked as he fitted them into one hand to take with him.

            He clambered to his feet, then, stretching in the sunlight, letting its warmth seep into his bones. Across the lawn he could see the cab he had called waiting patiently for him. Turning, he looked back down, eyes tracing over the champagne bottle, over the damp circle of ground, over the letters of Derek’s name where they were carved into stone. He reached out, ran his fingers over the cut marble of the headstone, a soft smile creeping onto his lips.

            “Congrats, Papa Hale,” he said softly. “You’re a grandaddy now.”

            He patted the sun-warmed surface once before turning to head back to the hospital.


	23. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek & Stiles, hand-to-hand combat in sand, because sand is a mean thing and hard to run on.

            At least the sand didn’t scrape when he landed, he thought, scrambling through the shifty, white material in an attempt to put distance between himself and Derek. His foot slid sideways in the soft ground just as Derek lunged for him. Rolling with his fall, Stiles managed to hit the sand on his back and plant a kick with both feet on Derek’s chest before Derek could reach him. It was a lot like using all his strength to kick a brick wall.

            He immediately regretted his decision when Derek’s hands found both of his ankles and he was hauled bodily into the air upside down. “Woah!” he choked out, flailing as Derek held him there. “Okay, not fair! This is not fair at all, Derek.”

            “You started it,” Derek told him calmly. “I want to learn how to fight, Derek. Go hand-to-hand with me, Derek. Teach me how to kick your ass, Derek. Come on, it can’t-”

            “Okay, asshole,” Stiles interrupted before Derek could continue reminding him of his stupid, somewhat drunken requests. He flailed his arms in a pattern that was meant to send him swinging so that maybe he could reach Derek, but the wolf just dipped him down so that the top of his head brushed the warm sand. Then he began walking.

            “Maybe you just need to cool off a bit,” Derek told him and Stiles didn’t have to see him to hear the self-satisfied smirk.

            Then he realized what Derek meant and where they were heading and he began to struggle in earnest. “Hey, no! Let’s not be rash! You’re not supposed to go swimming for thirty minutes after eating you know! Derek! Come on, man, I’m still dressed!”

            Derek paused. He made a soft noise of consideration, and then Stiles found himself being lowered - gently, even - to the sandy beach. The moment he was released he flipped around to see Derek, who was just standing there, giving him a contemplative look. Stiles swallowed and stared back.

            “You don’t have to be,” Derek said after a moment.

            “What?”

            “You don’t have to be,” Derek repeated, even though he knew that was not what Stiles was asking. He smiled. “Dressed.”

            Stiles shot a glance back to where he could see the fire, half buried in the sand a good fifty yards away, outlines in the silhouettes of their friends. He looked back to Derek. “It’s a public beach.”

            “And we’re the only ones here,” Derek pointed out.

            “We’re here with a pack of werewolves. Two packs,” Stiles corrected before Derek could object. “Who can hear everything.”

            Derek looked back, over his shoulder, and watched the group for a moment. None of them gave any indication that they were listening, or that they had heard any part of the conversation. The crash and roll of the choppy waves was a good cover, and he said as much to Stiles. “They won’t hear.”

            Rolling his eyes, Stiles flopped back into the sand. The world gave a pleasant, giddy little spin to remind him he’d been drinking. “Aren’t you supposed to be teaching me hand-to-hand or something?”

            The sand around his hips shifted as Derek knelt with one knee to either side of him. Stiles didn’t bother hiding the smile as Derek leaned down and pressed their lips together, hands snaking up under his thin shirt. With a little shiver, Stiles helped Derek divest him of the offending article of clothing, a lot hum escaping as Derek’s hands found his and pinned them to either side of his head, pressing them into the sun-kissed sand.

            He felt the smile against his lips when Derek rolled his hips into Stiles’ and said: “Hand-to-hand __and__ something okay with you?”


	24. Scott x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott/Stiles with Stiles calling Scott "Scotty." MAYBE HUGS. Maybe Scott crying on Stiles' shoulder and Stiles tearing up idk.

            Stiles didn’t even remember to lock the Jeep as he tumbled out of it, scrambling into the hospital as fast as he could. It seemed like there were people everywhere, purposefully striding into his path as he wriggled his way through the hospital. He stopped only long enough at a desk to get the room number he needed and then he was off again, dodging people. He rounded the last corner and caught sight of Scott’s mop of hair at the end of the hall. He didn’t call out, just composed himself a little and stepped over as quickly as he could without seeming panicked.

           He approached Scott with all the caution of approaching a wild animal. “Scott?” he called out. There was no flinching, no acknowledgement. Stiles reached out, laid a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Scotty?”

            It was like watching a dam break. One second he was standing there, arm outstretched to tentatively touch and the next he had an armful of Scott wrapped so tightly around him that he could hardly breathe. Stiles swallowed and dropped his arms around Scott’s shoulders and held on just as tightly.

            “Oh god, I’m so sorry,” Stiles breathed, tipping his head to press their temples gently together. He could feel Scott shaking. “I got here as fast as I could.”

            “She’s okay,” Scott breathed into his shoulder, but even without tone Stiles could hear the lump in his throat. “She’ll be okay, she has to be okay.”

            Stiles nodded his agreement, his eyes sliding sideways to the hospital bed in the room. There were two staff in the room, Stiles thought maybe a doctor and a resident or a nurse or something. They were checking Melissa over, watching her heart beat a steady rhythm. She wasn’t moving, didn’t have her eyes open, and Stiles knew the machine she was attached to was doing her breathing for her. His mom had had the same one. He hugged Scott tighter.

            “It’s going to be okay,” he murmured, fingers carding comfortingly through Scott’s hair. “They stopped the bleeding right? She’s just gotta heal up a little. She’ll be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”


	25. Scott x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott/Stiles, cold winter cuddles under blankets in their PJs being adorable and playing DSs under the covers and tangling their legs/feet together. Stiles calling Scott "Scotty."

            Stiles bumped the door to his room open with his elbow and caught Scott’s eye as he entered. He held up the two steaming mugs of cocoa in his hands and Scott’s eyes lit up as he burst into a beaming smile. Stiles couldn’t help but echo it, because he loved that smile. It was his favorite smile, out of all of them, the one that said oh my god you did it right you beautiful person. He liked that it was usually reserved for him.

            “Okay, so I’m not saying I did, but maybe I found mini-marshmallows in the cupboard-”

            “Dude!” Scott said, hopping off the bed and meeting Stiles halfway. He peeked into the soft blue mug Stiles passed him and practically glowed at the sight of the pile of mini marshmallows heaped into it. “You’re the best, man.”

            Laughing, Stiles shouldered him toward the bed, wrapping both his hands around his own brown mug for warmth. His dad hated turning up the heat. “I know. Now get your ass in my bed before we freeze to death!”

            Scott dissolved into laughter as well, but he clambered back onto Stiles’ bed and passed him the silver Nintendo DS from the nightstand. Stiles laid his mug on the headboard cabinet of the bed beside him to accept it and turned it to check the cartridge to see what Scott had chosen. He rolled his eyes. “Mario Kart? Really? Again?”

            Scott made a face at him and set his mug on the nightstand. It was too hot to drink and he’d already picked out some of the marshmallows to eat. “Okay Mr. ‘I play I-Love-Puppies until 2am and live-text it to my best friend.’”

            “Oh my god that was one time,” Stiles returned, shoving Scott for good measure. Scott let him so that it didn’t feel quite like shoving a brick wall. The whole werewolf thing was sort of unfair. “Fine, we’ll play your racing game and I’ll kick your little green ass again.” He flicked on the little handheld system and as it began to beep, he gave an exaggerated shiver and looked over to Scott. “Is it cold in here?”

            Scott gave him a flat look, because Stiles knew he was always warm now, but he couldn’t keep it up with the way Stiles was staring at him pleadingly. “You know, you can just ask like a normal person.”

            Stiles leaned over and pressed the bridge of his nose to Scott’s cheekbone and sighed his surrender. “Scotty, will you please, please, please keep me warm while I kick your ass at video games?”

            After a quick glance down to make sure there was nothing he could tip over, Scott reached up and dragged Stiles down onto his side. They both squirmed and kicked until the covers were dragged out from under them and then Scott fluffed them up high into the air so that they tented over both of them before settling over them. They wiggled into upright positions, shoulder to shoulder. It was much warmer snuggled under the covers with a werewolf.

            Scott’s game bleeped at him, and both their systems began playing tinny, cute music. Without saying a word, they chose their characters and the massacre was on. They played with gentle shoves and mumbled curses and a few instances of “not touching your screen” with hands hovering a half inch from the screen. It wasn’t cheating and if it was neither of them cared long enough for it to matter.

            By the end of the seventeenth round, Stiles was flagging, his head drooping to rest on Scott’s shoulder as he played his game mostly sideways. He’d lost the last six rounds and he was getting crankier at time kept ticking past his usual sleep hours. Scott was thoroughly enjoying listening to the way his heartbeat evened out bit by bit and then raced when Stiles jolted awake and attempted to fumble back into playing.

            “Stiles,” Scott said, sing-songing the name as he nosed Stiles’ hair. He liked that Stiles had grown it out. Stiles made a sleepy noise and wrinkled his nose, lifting the DS to pretend he was totally awake. Scott chuckled and reached over, slipping the system from Stiles’ long fingers.

            Shuffling the covers back down so they could get fresh air, Scott placed their two systems on the headboard shelves. Stiles gave a gaping yawn and Scott fought furiously to contain an answering one; he failed and Stiles poked him in the belly in the middle of it. Scott huffed and shoved Stiles backward onto the pillows, flopping down half on top of him.

            Twining a leg around Scott’s, Stiles shifted around until he had Scott curled up snugly against him. The weight of Scott’s arm over his chest was hugely comforting, warm in the cold of the room. “Hey Scotty?” he mumbled, barely awake.

            “Mm?”

            Stiles didn’t really have anything to say. He turned his head and pressed his cheek to Scott’s forehead. Scott butted his head forward just a little, and moved just enough to press a kiss to Stiles’ throat.

            “Good night, Stiles,” he murmured against Stiles’ skin, but his heart was already beating in the steady lub-dub of sleep. Scott closed his eyes.


	26. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek protecting Stiles from one, or more, of the alpha pack, getting hurt, and Stiles taking care of him afterward.

            Stiles couldn’t kick the door down, which was rather unfortunate given that the alpha werewolf he’d spent the last twenty minutes dragging from the car to the elevator and from the elevator to the door was unlikely to be amicable to him sorting through his pockets. Thankfully said werewolf was unconscious and didn’t have a say in the matter, and so Stiles pawed through Derek’s pockets until he found the front door key. He wasn’t sure why Derek locked the door in the first place- anyone that was coming to see him either had permission to get in or wasn’t going to be stopped by a deadbolt.

            It didn’t matter anyway; he unlocked the door and propped it open and he was about to continue dragging Derek through it when Derek spasmed and snarled and rolled onto his side, spitting up blood and rage.

            “Derek!” Stiles shouted, crab-scrambling backward to keep from being torn to shreds. Clearly Derek didn’t know where he was, maybe thought he was still in the fight with Kali. “Derek you’re fine! Dude, you’re safe! You’re home!”

            At that, Derek hesitated, his bright crimson eyes clearing to the pale color of humanity. “Stiles?” he chokes out.

            “Yeah, buddy,” Stiles agreed, hand grasping his phone tight enough his knuckles have gone white. Why wasn’t Scott answering? They’d gotten separated and no one was calling him back. They should have gotten here way before Stiles did.

            “You’re okay,” Derek rasped, the way he glanced around suggesting he was confused about how he’d gotten there. “Kali-”

            “She’s gone,” Stiles assured him. He chanced getting a little closer. “You saved me, and the pack ran her off. She hurt you really bad, Derek. We have to get you inside.”

            “Inside,” Derek echoed, managing to get to his hands and knees. He groaned and collapsed a little and Stiles was beside him without even thinking about it.

            “Yeah, inside,” Stiles agreed. He wrapped his hands around Derek’s middle, mindful of the injuries, and helped haul him to his feet. The shirt slid sticky-hot with blood under his hands, but he held tight anyway until Derek made it into the middle of the loft. Stiles left him there to lock the door behind them.

            The place was as bare as if no one lived there, still, but it did have first aid supplies. The wolves shouldn’t have any need of it, but fighting alpha werewolves as they’d been doing the last month, Stiles had insisted that they stock appropriately. He was glad for it now as he yanked gauze and stitching kits and iodine from the cabinet in the bathroom and hurried back to Derek’s side.

            “You are so lucky I like you,” Stiles grumbled as he rolled Derek onto his back, a groan of protest rumbling up from the wolf’s chest. He glanced to Derek’s face, but his eyes were screwed shut in pain. “This is gonna hurt.”

            “Just do it,” Derek told him, rushed out on a breath he’d been holding.

            Stiles frowned and began cutting through Derek’s shirt with the very sharp scissors from one of the kits. It was a lost cause anyway, so Stiles just pushed it to the side and tried not to lose it completely at the sight of all the blood. He didn’t even know where to start, so he just picked one of the ugly, ragged claw wounds and began to wipe it clean. He swabbed it with iodine and winced when Derek hissed in pain.

            “Sorry, I’m sorry,” Stiles apologized, gingerly poking at the edges of the wound. It seeped blood, but it was red blood, not black. Stiles tried to remember if that was good or not but everything Scott had told him was scattering to the wind as he freaked out.

            “Stiles,” Derek gritted out. “Take a deep breath.”

            In. And out. Stiles realized he was shaking. “Sorry,” he murmured, looking up to meet Derek’s eyes.

            “Is there anything in them?” Derek asked.

            Stiles glanced over all of the injuries, scanning for any dirt or stone or bits of claw or anything that might be keeping the wounds from healing. “Blood,” he said, voice following suit on the trembling issue. He cleared his throat. “Just blood, they’re clear otherwise.”

            Derek let his head fall back against the floor. “Then they’ll heal. Where is everyone else?”

            “I don’t know,” Stiles said miserably, allowing himself to sit rather than kneel. Some of the tension leaked out of him knowing that Derek thought he was going to be okay. “They’re not answering their phones. Scott told me to stay with you, but we couldn’t- you were bleeding-”

            “Stiles,” Derek interrupted, huffed out a breath that sounded like pain. “Just shut up.”

            “Okay,” Stiles agreed. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Derek’s prone form or the excess of blood coating his body. There was dirt and sweat and his clothes were rags and- “You really need a shower. You kind of reek and-”

            Derek groaned. “Do you ever stop talking?”

            “I talk when I’m nervous!” Stiles exclaims grouchily. He jumped when his phone rang and he scrambled back toward the doorway where he’d left it. Relief flooded through him when he saw Scott’s number. “Scott?”

            The line crackled like it was losing reception and then Scott’s voice came through, loud and clear. “We’re okay, Stiles. We’re heading over. Is Derek-?”

            “Alive,” Stiles told him, surprised at how much of his relief bled into the word. He looked over to Derek, finally relaxing. “We’re okay.”


	27. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do me a happy. A real happy.

            There are a million ways to say ‘I love you’ and they have made a silent pact to find every single one of them that is not actually saying those three words.

            Stiles says it by remembering that Derek likes his coffee with two little cups of cream and a spoonful of cane sugar.

            Derek says it by waking Stiles up with a soft nuzzle thirty seconds before his alarm goes off so that Stiles’ day starts with warmth and love instead of harsh tones.

            It is understood that it is what Stiles means when he volunteers to clean the bathroom before it truly needs it, because Derek’s nose is sensitive to the cleaners.

            It is understood that it is what Derek means when he tucks Stiles up against his chest on the couch and lets him pick terrible end-of-the-world flicks to watch for the night.

            Their friends hear it when they are all together and Stiles lets his knuckles rest comfortably next to Derek’s on the table while he listens to someone’s newest idea.

            Their friends hear it when they catch Derek watching Stiles’ every move with a soft smile that doesn’t seem out of place anymore.

            Stiles doesn’t need to say it when he’s got Derek wrapped up in his arms, head tucked under his chin and Derek’s arm flopped over his waist. Derek can feel it in the thrum of his heart under his fingertips.

            Derek doesn’t need to say it when he brings warm french toast with crushed strawberries and whipped cream to Stiles in bed the next morning. Stiles can feel it in the soft kiss Derek presses to his cheek.

            They say it with every warm smile they trade. They say it with every kiss, every brush of fingers, every bump of their shoulders. They say it in the morning by the way they share their spaces, and in the evening by the way they share the stories of their day. They say it when they are together as their eyes gravitate toward one another and they say it when they are apart when their thoughts do the same.

            They say it in a million ways, every day, without ever saying a word.


	28. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek. Stiles meets Cora, and she's the one that figures it out before the boys do.

            She thinks she’s never seen her brother so nervous. Not when their dad pitted him against Jake when they were ten and Derek was being hot-headed over video game controls of all things. Not when he was on his way to the first day of high school. Not even the first day he came home smelling like that human girl that took everything from them. Even then his skin didn’t reek of the same degree of worry. She wondered if he even knew what he was feeling.

            So when Derek gives her a look before opening the front door of the loft, she rolls her eyes but she smiles. And when Derek steps aside to let the human boy enter, and happiness rolls off Derek’s scent thicker than the worry, she doesn’t mention it. She will, when they’re alone. But for now she extends a hand and offers the human a smile.

            “Cora,” she says.

            “Stiles,” he replied, shaking her hand with a weird amount of pressure and she can smell that he’s nervous. She knows it’s not because she’s a werewolf; she’s been told about this one.

            “I’m Derek’s sister,” she offers, as if she even needs to explain. She’s sure he’s been told about her, too.

           “I know.” He smiles, and she can see why Derek likes him. She wonders when Derek will realize that Stiles likes him, too. “You got a sort of sucky welcome to Beacon Hills.”

            “Three months locked in an abandoned bank vault with two angry werewolves?” she asks. It sounds polite. It’s not. She’s still sore about it. She won’t tell them she blames them for not finding her sooner. She blames Derek, mostly. “I’d say so.”

            Stiles winces. “Yeah… well, I thought maybe you’d like to take a break from all this and grab lunch with us?”

            She surveys him for a moment and she can hear the beat of Derek’s heart, loud and worried as he looks between them. She’s not about to make it easy; he should have found her. “Take a break?” she asks, moving forward so that Stiles is forced to move back toward the door. “Is that why it took so long to find us? Took a lot of breaks?”

            As she reaches for the door he steps out of her way, gaping, and when she turns to look at them she can practically feel how much both of them want to reach for the other. Neither of them do. Boyd was right. They’re quite the mess.


	29. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is a lifeguard at a pool, and Stiles goes to ogle him every few days. One day he stares too long, and Derek winks at him.

            He is there enough that Derek begins to take notice. Granted, he took notice the first day the boy showed up in tacky, bright orange swim trunks with his much more subdued best friend. There was sunscreen smeared on his nose far too thickly and he was talking animatedly about something Derek couldn’t hear. He didn’t have to be in range to see the way his friend groaned with his entire body, though he got to blow his whistle when the friend pushed Orange into the water without even looking at him.

            He listens, when they show up now, though he doesn’t look at them long enough to get caught. He learns Orange’s name - it’s Stiles, and what sort of name is that, anyway - and his friend is Scott. At first they come every week, on Thursdays, and they stay an hour or two, paddling around in the lap pool like maybe they’ve come there to work out. They’d bad at it, never putting their heads underwater so they can talk the whole time. Sometimes they stand in line for the slide, and Stiles always makes Scott go first.

            It’s when Stiles begins to show up by himself that Derek really takes notice, though. Scott still comes with him on Thursdays, and they still goof off in the lap pool, but Stiles shows up on a Monday, and Derek is glad he picked up Erica’s shift. Stiles spends his hour-long visit floating on a blue inner tube, not being nearly discreet enough in his watching Derek. Instead of acknowledging it, Derek just watches the lap pool and keeps his grin to himself.

            Stiles shows up again on Saturday, and he stays for most of the day this time. He’s brought a lunch, which he takes to one of the three picnic tables by the fence on the far side of the pool area. It’s a nice day for it, the sky blue and the clouds thick and puffy and white, casting shadows that drift over the ground in patterns. Stiles eats slowly and doesn’t look at Derek for once, but he licks all of his long fingers clean of the peanut butter and jelly from his sandwich.

            He doesn’t catch Derek watching.

            Derek spends the rest of the afternoon uncomfortable sitting in his chair and thankfully no one has to be rescued.

            Most of the summer is spent in this fashion, with Derek staring at Stiles when he isn’t looking, feeling Stiles’ gaze burning on him when he looks away. He knows why Stiles is there, and he picks up extra shifts to make sure he’s there when Stiles turns up. His co-workers tease him quietly when Stiles shows and Derek is not there; he leaves almost immediately, and they’ve cottoned on to what is happening. Isaac’s smirking is insufferable.

            There is a day when Derek decides he is not going to look away this time. He’s going to stare at Stiles until Stiles looks back, and maybe he’ll motion him over and maybe he’ll even say hello. Maybe he’ll give Stiles his name as well, and maybe they’ll talk for a little bit.

            All of Derek’s maybes wither, however, when he turns to make good on his plan. Stiles is already staring, has already made the same decisions not to look away. For a moment they stare, each feeling caught, and the rush of Derek’s heart gives him the courage to act a little spontaneously.

            He winks.

            Stiles breaks into a pleased smile, and begins to head his way.


	30. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek putting up new wallpaper or painting his new crib, and Stiles tries to help.

            “This is really sticky,” Stiles commented, rubbing his fingers together. There was eggshell-white paint smeared on them; on all parts of him, really. Derek was ignoring the smudge on his cheek and the bits making his over-long hair poke up in spikes. “Is it supposed to be like this? How old is this paint, Derek?”

            “It’s a special kind,” Derek groused, dipping his brush into the paint bucket closest to him. “It’s made for painting stone and brick.”

            “Oh right, because most of your apartment is brick instead of drywall like a normal person,” Stiles commented, following suit and coating his own brush in the thick, sticky paint.

            Derek rolled his eyes, stroking the brush over the dark surface in front of him. “This wasn’t my idea,” he pointed out dryly.

            “Of course it wasn’t your idea!” Stiles exclaimed. His brush strokes were uneven and left streaks of raised paint in their wake that were driving Derek up a wall; or they would be if Derek was watching. Which he wasn’t, even though he really was. “Sometimes I think you’d be content living in a cave. Well news flash, wolfboy, the rest of the world likes a little color and brightness in their lives.”

            “This isn’t even a color!” Derek responded, slapping his brush a little harder than he’d meant to into the paint. It splattered up onto his hand.

            Stiles turned halfway to him, looking appalled. “For your information, white is the presence of all colors, thank you very much. It also reflects light, which, I’m sorry but your living space could use a little light, Derek.”

            Sighing, Derek scrubbed another line of paint onto the wall and shook his head. He listened to Stiles smear paint around in a completely disorderly fashion for a moment before he let out a frustrated noise and got to his feet. Stiles hesitated as Derek stalked over to him and got between the paint can and the human.

            “If you’re not going to do this right, then stop doing it,” Derek told him, jabbing his paint brush at Stiles, who backpedaled to escape having his shirt ruined.

            “What?” Stiles asked, indignant.

            Derek removed the paint brush from Stiles’ hand and set it against the wall where one of Stiles’ bumpy lines of paint stood out from the wall. “If you are going. To paint,” he repeated, and he drew the brush over the line, smoothing it. “Do it right. I don’t want to redo this when you’re gone.” When Derek looked over, he caught Stiles smiling softly at him. “What?”

            Without saying a word, Stiles reached down, dipped a finger into the paint and before Derek even thought to stop him, he had wiped a streak of it across Derek’s cheek. Derek squawked in indignation, a noise cut off when Stiles leaned forward and covered his lips with his own. For an instant Derek thought about resisting, on principle, but he could feel Stiles’ smile and it really just wasn’t worth it. The delighted noise Stiles made when he responded, however, was.

            “Didn’t want to paint the place _my ass_ ,” Stiles accused gently when they pulled apart, still smiling.


	31. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preslash UST, where Sheriff ships them to the point of insisting Derek move in with them.

            "Dad!" Stiles exclaimed, scandalized.

            “What!” his father protested, motioning between the two of them. “He’s here enough, and we have a spare bedroom.”

            “Oh my god this isn’t happening,” Stiles groaned, covering his face with his hands so that he couldn’t see the blush staining Derek’s cheeks. “Derek is not moving in with us.”

            Of all people, the sheriff looked to Derek as if Derek were going to help him win this argument. “You’re starting classes soon, aren’t you?” he asked. “And they are in town here, at the station. There’s no sense in you driving all the way in from your apartment every day.”

            “It’s only for a few months, Sir,” Derek tells him, though it sounds stiff, like he still isn’t sure how to address Stiles’ father. Is he a father? Is he a cop?

            Stiles’ father rolled his eyes. “If you don’t want to, I guess I can’t make you, but you’ve been over here every day or else Stiles is driving out to see you-”

            “Oh my god, Dad!” Stiles interjects before his father can embarrass him any further. “I told you it’s not to see him.” A pause. “Okay, not just to see him!”

            Derek looks over, a little surprised, and Stiles just groans and looks away again. This was really not how any of them had pictured this conversation going…


	32. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Light and fluffy Sterek

            The solution, of course, is ice cream.

            It doesn’t really matter what the problem is, at the moment, because all Stiles can think about is how ungodly hot it is outside and the air conditioning in the loft is completely non-existent. He would go home, except is father won’t turn their air conditioning on and the only thing more frustrating than not having air conditioning in the first place is having air conditioning he’s not allowed to use.

            So the solution is ice cream, and he sits draped in one of the horrible little wooden chairs at the table complaining about it until Derek scoots his chair closer and grabs his attention with a whistle. Stiles drags his head up from the headrest to look at him, and Derek gives him a very serious look.

            “Is there any foreseeable end to your bitching in our future?” he asks.

            Stiles gives a short bark of laughter before putting his head back down. “Dude it’s like 110 outside and you won’t even open a window.”

            “The windows don’t open,” Derek grouches, moving back to where he’d been sitting.

            “Oh my god,” Stiles groans, closing his eyes. He can feel his shirt sticking to his skin. He can feel every inch of his clothing sticking to his skin. “How about the next time you want to pick out a living space, you consult someone that didn’t previously live in the woods. Anyone. I don’t even care who.”

            “Stiles,” Derek warns, but it is soft enough they both knew he doesn’t mean it.

            “Come on,” Stiles begs. “What are you even doing that’s so important that we can’t go out?”

            Derek shifts uncomfortably. He isn’t about to admit that he doesn’t really have anything better to do, he just doesn’t want to go out. But Stiles catches the guilty expression when he looks over, and he makes a half-hearted victory noise.

           “Half an hour out isn’t going to kill you, Derek,” Stiles tells him as he flops out of the chair, barely making it to his feet. He holds out a hand to Derek, who makes a rough noise of irritation, but accepts it in order to get to his feet. “There’s a great little ice cream shop two blocks over, and as long as I’m taking cover in the city with you overnight, I’m gonna get a banana split.”

            “Fine,” Derek sighs, but he doesn’t do very well hiding his smile when Stiles beams at him. “As long as I can get a turtle sundae.”

            Stiles just laughs and tugs him toward the exit.


	33. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek arguing over which christmas tree to buy.

            “We should get a real one,” Stiles says idly from the small kitchen table. He’s got a magazine open in front of him and Derek’s pretty sure it’s full of winter clothing advertisements. He’s beginning to regret his decisions about allowing Stiles to make a copy of the apartment key.

            “A real what?” he asks from where he’s washing dishes in the sink. It’s soothing. Normal.

            “Christmas tree,” Stiles says, like it’s obvious, like he hadn’t been sitting in silence for the last ten minutes after dropping the previous, completely-unrelated subject.

            Derek swallows his sigh even though he can’t stop his eye roll. “We don’t need a christmas tree.”

            Stiles made a low humming noise at the back of his throat and turned the page. “Do werewolves even celebrate christmas?”

            “The Christian ones,” Derek tells him, because okay they may be a different species but they aren’t an alien race. Werewolves lived amongst humans and by human rules and it wasn’t like being a werewolf was a religion. “I haven’t… not in years.”

            That, at least, grants Derek a few more minutes of quiet. He cleans two plates and a trio of glasses and wonders how so many dishes are generated when they’re all hardly ever here for meals. The drying rack is already almost full.

            Of course the silence is far too sweet to last and when Stiles tips his head back Derek prepares himself for something completely different than what comes out of Stiles’ mouth next. “Do you want to?”

            Derek pauses in his washing, staring at the fork like it might hold some sort of revelation. It doesn’t; it never does. But he lets out his breath as he thinks. “I don’t know.”

            “I’m going to get you a tree,” Stiles declares, turning back to his magazine. He licks the pad of his thumb and turns the next page over and Derek can practically smell the ink rubbing off onto his fingers. “A real one.”

            “I don’t want a real tree,” Derek says firmly.

            “What? Why not?” Stiles protests. “We don’t have to decorate it or anything- I mean, maybe some fake snow because otherwise it looks like-”

            “Stiles,” Derek interrupts because if he doesn’t, there is for sure a tangent waiting to ambush them. “I don’t want a real tree. I don’t want to celebrate Christmas by killing something. Even a tree.”

            He hears the click of Stiles’ throat as he swallows. “Okay,” Stiles tells him quietly a moment later. “I’ll get a fake one. It’s charming, right? We can set it up together. I’ll get some ornaments to hang on it or something.”

            After that, they both let it slide. Stiles doesn’t mention it again and Derek doesn’t complain when he shows up with a small, fake tree. They set it up in front of the big window, and Derek lets Stiles string little white lights in circles around it. Stiles doesn’t say a word when Derek fetches a box of blue and white ornaments to hang on the branches. Stiles crowns it with a little stuffed wolf, and when he steps back, Derek slips his hand into Stiles’ and smiles, just a little.


	34. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because of researching old newspapers, Stiles fingers are covered in black and leaving fingerprints everywhere, and it's driving Derek up a wall for some reason.

            The fingerprints were everywhere.

            Derek hadn’t though much of it when he found the first few, smattered on the table top. There were newspapers spread like a tablecloth over everything and he wouldn’t have noticed them at all if Isaac hadn’t brought over a new light fixture that sent a skewed reflection across the surface as Derek cleaned. He might even have dismissed them entirely, except that little black prints seemed to sink into the wood and stain it.

            There were more, in the bathroom where Stiles had washed his hands before heading home. These came off easier, but were somehow more annoying; surely Stiles had seen them before he walked out of the room. Was it so difficult to wipe them off while they were fresh?

            If Derek didn’t know better, he would have said Stiles was leaving them on purpose.

            The next night, after almost two hours of listening to Stiles hum off pitch under his breath as he rifled through newspapers, Derek found more of them. More black smudges, more trailing fingerprints, more marks on his home. Half a handprint decorated the mug Stiles had been drinking from, and more trailed out in the kitchen when he’d taken the mug to the sink. There were fingerprints on his cabinet and fingerprints on his counter.

            He spent twenty minutes after Stiles left just scrubbing him from surfaces, getting rid of the inky twang of scent curled so tightly around Stiles’ own.

            “Can you just- stop.” he finally snarled two days later, as he watches Stiles leave a thumb print on the light switch. He’d had enough. “Stop touching things.”

            But Stiles just rolled his eyes. “I have to touch things, Derek, I’m trying to work. What’s the issue? This is for your problem, remember?”

            Derek let out a low, irritated growl because there really wasn’t a reason for him to be this irritated. It was just that they were everywhere and all of them smelled like Stiles and ink and a little bit like old musty paper. It was driving him a little crazy for reasons he couldn’t quite grasp. “I don’t want to clean up after you tonight,” he said instead of giving voice to the actual problem.

            The papers rattled around as Stiles tidied them into a pile and then shoved his chair away from the table. Derek watched him warily as he covered the distance between them and plopped down on the couch. He gave Derek a very calm, measured look that Derek did his best to return. In the end, it was Derek who looked away first and he hated the rush of blood under his skin.

            “Are you angry because I’m touching your stuff or because I’m not touching you?” Stiles asked, the moment Derek dropped his gaze.

            Derek’s eyes slid closed as his stomach swooped at the words. How was he supposed to answer that? “You’re leaving marks.”

            A low hum in the depths of Stiles’ throat was his answer. A moment later, Stiles shifted, and Derek finally looked up at him again. Stiles raised his eyebrows a little. “I could leave some marks you wouldn’t mind.”

            Derek swallowed, blood zinging beneath his skin. “You shouldn’t.”

            “I wasn’t asking about should or shouldn’t,” Stiles told him softly. He leaned a little closer, slowly, with ample time for Derek to escape. He didn’t move a muscle. “It was an offer,” he said, like advice, like a conspiracy.

            A little shiver chased heat down Derek’s spine as he held Stiles’ gaze the moment before their lips met.

            If Derek minded the ink on his skin or the bruises Stiles sucked into his shoulders and neck, just so he could watch them fade, he didn’t mention it just as much as Stiles didn’t mention the smudged black prints on the backs of Derek’s white briefs. Stiles didn’t stop leaving fingerprints after that; Derek, however, stopped washing them away.


	35. Isaac and Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I crashed your car

            “We are so dead,” Isaac moaned, letting his head clunk onto the steering wheel of the Camaro.

            “We’re not dead,” Stiles told him, but his heart was thrumming and his skin was clammy and he didn’t want to agree that they were dead, but they were pretty dead.

            “We’re totally dead,” Isaac argued, eyes squeezed shut tight. His knuckles were white on the wheel.

            “We need to get out,” Stiles said, instead of denying it. His voice was strained. “We have to talk to the other person and check the damage. We’re so dead.” He hadn’t meant to add that.

            Isaac groaned. “What are we going to tell Derek?”

            “I’ll tell Derek,” Stiles said with a little shake of his head. “We’ll tell him I was driving.”

            “He’ll hear you lying. I can hear you lying,” Isaac pointed out. “He’s going to murder us slowly and no one will ever find our bodies.”

            “You’re being dramatic,” Stiles shot back. “Scott will find our bodies. Get out of the car.”

            With nothing further to argue, they opened their doors in tandem and slipped from the car. It was just a simple grocery run. A stupid run down to the closest grocery store because Isaac and Stiles had wanted ice cream and Derek was busy. They were going to bring some back for Derek. Stiles pulled out his phone and sent a text to Scott with their location as Isaac rounded the front of the car to come stand by him.

            “Are you boys all- Stiles!”

            Stiles winced. “Hello Ms. McCall,” he intoned, voice dripping guilt. Beside him Isaac hunched his shoulders as he realized who was getting out of the car they’d hit.

            Melissa turned her eyes to their car, and scowled. “Is that Derek’s car? Stiles!”

            “What!” he protested. It hadn’t even been him driving this time. She was pulling out her phone and he knew she wasn’t texting Scott. “Oh my god, please don’t tell Derek!”

            “I’m telling Derek,” she told him as she held the phone to her ear. Isaac made a small, stressed noise.

            Nudging his arm, Stiles pointed to Melissa. “Get the phone,” he said even as they both heard Derek’s grouchy hello from the other end.

            “Derek?” Melissa greeted, turning away from Isaac as he moved to get the pohone from her. Stiles intercepted her. “Your beta just hit- Stiles!”

            Stiles crammed the phone to his ear and skirted around to put Isaac between himself and Scott’s mother. “We may have given Scott’s mom’s car a love tap.”

            “Define love tap.” The irritation made Stiles’ skin itch.

            Wincing, Stiles moved farther from Melissa, who had crossed her arms and he was about to be double dead now. “I’m not going to say the car is totaled,” he began.

            “Stiles!”

            “Oh my god!” Stiles answered. “Look, we’ll get it fixed! Scott’s going to come get us and we’ll get your car towed-”

            “TOWED?”

            Stiles closed his eyes, nose scrunching. Behind him, Isaac made a low noise of displeasure. “The good news is, no one got hurt!” he offered as cheerfully as he could.

            “I’m coming out there. Where are you??

            "Corner of first and Beckett St,” Stiles said, giving a significant look to Isaac. He could still escape with Scott and leave Stiles to deal with Derek’s wrath over this. “Take your time!” Stiles hurried to say, but the line was already dead.

            He passed the phone back to Melissa, who snatched it from him with more force than was strictly necessary. Isaac stepped away from her, and motioned to the rear end of her car. “At least there’s not much damage to your car, right?”

            She rolled her eyes. “I’m going to go home now,” she said calmly. She pointed at Isaac. “I’d better see you back home before midnight.

            Isaac nodded and the two boys watched as she got back into her car. Isaac waited until the grumble of the engine settled and she was heading into the distance before he let out the breath he’d been holding. “We’re so dead.”

            “Yeah…” Stiles finally agreed.


	36. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Sterek. Shy, nerdy Derek and kind-of-good-at-sports Stiles. Derek's all awkward and easily flustered and Stiles thinks it's cute as fuck.

            It’s been two hours and a cup of coffee he knows he’s not allowed to bring into the library and he still hasn’t found everything he needs for the report. It’s getting dark outside and the shower in the lacrosse locker room he’d had earlier is already feeling like it wasn’t enough to be clean, not after working so hard to show the coach he could play first line this year. It’s almost looking possible, if he can just keep his grades up, but he can’t help wondering how he’s supposed to get anything done when he can feel the librarian’s stare on his back like a lead weight.

            He knows it can’t be because it’s closing time, because it’s not quite closing time and it certainly wasn’t closing time when Stiles walked into the place. It’s not a constant stare, and it’s not as subtle as he knows the guy is trying to be, but it’s there and it’s distracting and Stiles hasn’t been able to decide if he wants to wait and see what happens or if he could get away with striding over and asking if the guy minds staying after work for a bit. Stiles definitely wouldn’t mind staying after hours, not at all, not if it meant a chance for a makeout session amongst the bookshelves. Not if it meant a little more action at the help desk than was typical.

            There’s not even anyone else at the library this late, not in this town, and that sort of decides Stiles. With ten minutes left until the sign on the front door flips to closed, Stiles sweeps his homework into his bag and closes the cover on the last of the eighteen books he’s got spread all over the table. He steals a glance at the reference desk but the librarian is very carefully not looking at him, so he stacks the books neatly and deposits them on the return rack with as much noise as he can.

            It does the trick; the guy looks up with a pinched expression and Stiles wonders if he’s the one who has to file the books back in order before he can go home. He smiles when their eyes meet, and lays a hand on the books.

            “I can help you put them back,” he offers, way too loudly for a library. Whatever, they’re alone so there’s no one to even be quiet for.

            “It’s fine,” the guy says, but he’s sort of scowling a little and it would be adorable if Stiles didn’t feel like he’s going to fall into pale, pale eyes.

            “It’s no trouble–” he insists, as he saunters closer to the desk, close enough to read the guy’s name tag. “–Derek, is it?” Stiles smiles.

            Though a blush creeps over Derek’s face and he looks down as if embarrassed, he grumbles: “Oh good, you can read.” And it holds just enough bitchy irritation that Stiles can’t take it personally.

            Instead he laughs and leans on his folded forearms over the desk. “I can do a lot more than read,” he suggests, and he holds Derek’s gaze when he looks up, startled. He nods toward the rows and rows of bookshelves, all silent and devoid of life, and raises his eyebrows. “If you wanna turn the sign, maybe I could show you. We could, you know, reshelve some books or something.”

            “Or something,” Derek echoes, only it sounds like a proposition, and Stiles smiles.

            “Yeah,” he agrees, and he revels in the little thrill that courses though him as Derek pushes back his chair and gets to his feet.


	37. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek interviewing Stiles.

            “Under special abilities you put… fighting… werewol- Stiles this is ridiculous. Did you even- you can’t just-” Derek set the resume on the desk with more force than was strictly necessary. “Please tell me this is a joke.”

            “It’s a special skill!” Stiles protested, then rolled his eyes. “Okay, it’s a secret special skill. Come on, ask me the rest of the questions. I’ve only got an hour before I have to leave.”

            Derek’s lips pressed into a thin line as he stared until Stiles relented and pointed to a folder to Derek’s right. Crumpling up the fake resume that Stiles had somehow had the time to create and print on good paper just to mess with him, Derek flipped the folder open and was surprised to find something that looked… well, professional. He skimmed over the lines, but everything looked to be in order.

            “So?” Stiles asked softly, and something in Derek’s chest twisted. He looked up.

            “It’s good,” he replied, but it left a bad taste in his mouth. Stiles’ smile was caught somewhere between pleased and sad. “So, Mr. Stilinski,” Derek began. “Can you tell us what advantages you will bring to our company?”

            “I’m quick,” Stiles said, almost before Derek had finished asking. “I learn fast, and I get work done fast and more importantly, accurately. I’m good with research; reading volumes of material looking for the little things has practically been my hobby since high school. It would be great to be able to use my skills at a job like this.”

            Derek nodded and tried to dredge up some typical interview questions, the sort that Stiles was likely to be asked. He tried, he really did, but his mind just kept wandering back to the idea that Stiles was going to be applying for a real job now. One that would probably send him on cases around the country, and Derek might not see him for long stretches of time. Derek might not see him at all for years. The more he thought about it, the less okay he realized he was with the whole plan.

            “Derek?” Stiles asked, gently. When Derek met his gaze, something painfully akin to loss coiled in his gut. “Are you okay?”

           Swallowing, Derek nodded, but it deteriorated into a little shake of his head. “I don’t want you to go,” he said quietly.

            After a moment of just staring at Derek, unable to get him to look back up again, Stiles clambered to his feet. He gingerly touched the edge of the resume and Derek’s fingers went slack, allowing him to remove the papers. Stiles laid them neatly back atop the still open folder, and then stroked a hand over Derek’s head. He chased the action with a kiss to Derek’s forehead as he leaned across the desk.

            “Okay,” he agreed. “It’s okay. We’ll work it out. Promise.”


	38. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has a thing for teeth. and biting.

            It might have been the first time Derek laid blunt teeth to the soft skin of his collarbone as he sucked marks into the ridge. It might have been the clamp of his teeth to the line of his throat when Stiles tipped his head back, baring it to the alpha scraping fingernails down his back. It might have been the gentle nips laid to the flesh of his inner thighs laid in the wake of Derek’s warm hands the moment before heat enveloped him. It might have been the sensation ghosting through his core when Derek used just the barest hint of teeth a moment later.

            Whatever started it, he knew that his desire to feel the gentle, human bites Derek gave bordered on obsession. He wasn’t above asking, or directing Derek’s attention where he wanted it. He wasn’t above demanding. He wasn’t above begging.

            Derek liked when he demanded it, when he growled “Derek!” nearly as well as any werewolf ever had. He liked feeling Stiles’ fingers curl tight in his hair, pressing him closer, and the feel of Stiles’ skin giving slightly under the pressure he applied. He liked the marks he left behind, and he liked knowing Stiles couldn’t heal them.

            “Mine,” he would say, lips brushing the skin of Stiles’ back at the end of a trail of marks that left nothing of what they’d been doing to the imagination.

            “Prove it.”


	39. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> University AU where Stiles is a young TA and Derek is an older student in his class (older than Stiles and the rest of the students), and Derek feels insecure because of his age and acts all brooding and angry because he doesn't know how to act, and Stiles hates him at first but one night Derek goes back looking for the professor except they've left and Stiles is the one there, and they talk and start getting close.

            The knock to the door was a surprise.

            It was only the little desk lamp that Stiles still had turned on, not the room light, and it couldn’t have looked like anyone was even in the office. It wasn’t normal office hours for Professor Deaton so his students shouldn’t have been looking for him, which meant whoever was tapping steadily on the door was either lost or looking specifically for Stiles. He sighed and scooted his chair back, taking a moment to prepare himself to deal with some green undergrad looking for an office that probably wasn’t even in this building.

            Opening the door to find the moodiest kid - man, really, he was probably older than Stiles by a few years - in the class standing there scowling was a surprise.

            “Hello,” Stiles greeted, failing spectacularly to keep his surprise out of his voice. The guy shifted uncomfortably and glanced over Stiles’ shoulder to see into the office. “Looking for the professor?”

            “Yeah, I just- I had some questions,” he responded, finally meeting Stiles’ eyes.

            “Maybe I can help?” Stiles offered, stepping aside to let Derek into the room. “It’s Derek, right?” He didn’t miss the startled wonder that flashed across Derek’s features.

            “Uh, yes. Yeah, Derek.” He moved into the room, keeping a careful distance from Stiles that seemed a little unusual. “I can come back if…?”

           Two months ago, when the class first started and Stiles found himself at the head of it as Professor Deaton’s assistant, Stiles would have told the guy, yeah, come back tomorrow between 6 and 8pm. A month ago, he might have added that he was sorry, because despite how much Derek scowls, the times that he raises his hand and offers his input during class have left Stiles with three days worth of thoughts on material he’d been through at least six times in preparation for assisting with the class.

            A week ago, Derek had raised his hand and, in an example he was explaining to the rest of the class, told them how he had lost his family in a fire a few years ago, and Stiles found he couldn’t hate him after that. No matter how much Derek frowned or hunched down in his seat like he didn’t want to be there, Stiles couldn’t hate him.

            “It’s okay,” he said softly, giving him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’ve got all night if you do.”

            He realized how that sounded the moment the words were past his lips, and he blushed. But Derek was just sort of staring at him like he had said the nicest thing in the world rather than put his foot in his mouth. “Thanks,” Derek said, breathed out like a sigh of relief.

            Stiles smiled. Maybe his boring grading-papers night wouldn’t be so boring after all.


	40. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer camp shenanigans, maybe they're in rival cabins and there's a prank-off. Derek can be a counselor or an attendee, your pick.

            It wasn’t like it was just hot at the camp- it was oppressively hot. It was hot in the way that standing near an active lava stream could never be because all the mugginess got burned away. It was hot like the swamps of Florida, hot like the dead of August after a thunderstorm that hadn’t been big enough to really soak the ground with cool relief. It was hot in ways Stiles didn’t even have words for, and Stiles had a lot of words, none of which he was currently employing as he groaned and whined and lay sprawled on the semi-cool but sweaty hardwoods of the common room cabin.

            “You know that floor is filthy, don’t you?” Scott asked from his high-horse wooden chair in front of the clicking, rotating fan. Stiles could feel the edge of it brush against his calf when it hit the far left of its rotation.

            Stiles made a noise that suggested he didn’t care as long as it was cooler than sitting or standing. He let his eyes droop closed as he shifted to find a space on the floor that wasn’t body-warmed. Across the cabin the door opened and the over-loud sound of Jackson and Danny arguing filtered into the quiet.

            “Stilinski!”

            Stiles jumped, eyes shooting open because that wasn’t Jackson or Danny or any of the other kids that were participating in the lame team-building summer camp activities that he and Scott had so far managed to dodge. They’d join in when things moved beyond throwing a ball around a circle and saying your name and one interesting thing about yourself.

            The glare he received from the counselor that was stalking over to them was nothing short of murderous. Perhaps it would have just been irritated if it weren’t for the heat, but Stiles would never have a chance to find out. Even if it weren’t the sort of hot found beyond the ninth circle of Hell, this particular counselor had been on his case since they’d arrived two days ago and Stiles had no idea why.

            Not that he minded, he thought as he sat up a little, glaring back at the guy. If Stiles had to be hounded by anyone at the camp, he’d gladly take the ridiculously attractive tall-dark-and-handsome that was standing over him with crossed arms.

            “Derek!” he greeted cheerfully, smiling with the sort of pleasantness that said he’d rather be chewing shrapnel than be having this conversation. Again. “What can I do for you?”

            He rolled his eyes. “It’s Counselor Hale,” the guy said, although his tone was less vexed than the previous times. He was wearing down having to repeat himself every. single. time. “You do realize you’re not allowed to skip the group activities.”

            It wasn’t really a question, but if it had been a question, it would clearly have been rhetorical, so of course he answered. “Yeah? What’re you gonna do if we miss them?” he asked. “Say we can’t play anymore? Send us to our rooms?” His eyebrows danced up a little at the suggestion, like just maybe he wanted to be ordered somewhere.

            “I’m sure the sheriff wouldn’t mind coming to pick up his son,” Derek told him with a smile that didn’t fool Stiles at all.

            “You’d miss me,” he responded, winking.

            Honestly Derek probably would not miss him as a hazard of the summer camp counselor job. Stiles knew that. They’d gotten off on the wrong foot and okay, maybe it was mostly due to the way that Stiles had spent his first afternoon there unscrewing every salt shaker lid so that half the camp poured the entire bottle over the horrible amalgamation of tasteless camp food they were expected to eat. And maybe the camp had been forced to order pizza that night, and maybe Derek had to go pick it up and maybe he insisted the perpetrator go with him to carry everything. That had maybe happened. It wasn’t the best first impression.

            It wasn’t like Derek was the easiest counselor to get along with. Counselor Morell was much nicer than him, and Stiles liked her soft smile even if sometimes she stared a little too long and her group complained that she was too observant so they couldn’t get away with anything. Stiles didn’t know if their group could get away with anything; he and Scott had been sneaking off to pull pranks for the entire two days they’d been here. He had no regrets about the redecorating of Derek’s room with all of the Nature they could haul in together, but removing all of the hygiene projects from the bathrooms had seemed like a better idea than it was in practice.

            Whatever, because Derek was kind of a stick in the mud when it came to activities. He kept his group away from the more risky activities the other groups were doing like rope climbing and swimming in the huge river that ghosted along the border of the camp. What Stiles wouldn’t have given to go swimming there on a day like this instead. He didn’t even know how to get there, thanks to Derek. Stiles was too hot and cranky to worry about why Derek didn’t want to go near those things.

            “You think so?” Derek asked, interrupting his stream of thought. Stiles shook his head a little to clear it. “I think it would be a hell of a lot easier to run things smoothly.”

            Stiles grinned. “I think you mean a hale of a lot-”

            “Get out,” Derek told him, but Stiles heard the amusement clinging to the edges of the order. “Just get out. Dinner is in an hour and I expect both of you will be there. Your mom-” he said, turning to give Scott a significant look, because his mom was the new leader of said summer camp which was the only reason the two of them were being tolerated after their pranks and probably the only reason they were performing said pranks in the first place - “is doing room inspections during dinner. I assume you won’t want to be there.”

            “You assume correctly,” Scott said, nodding a little as he clambered to his feet. “Come on, Stiles. Let’s just go.”

            Though Stiles rolled his eyes, he got to his feet as well, making a face at the way his clothes stuck to him with grime and sweat from all the heat and nature. He followed after Scott, but when he reached the door he turned and gave Derek a little wave. Derek’s brows furrowed a bit at the gesture, which only caused Stiles to break into an even bigger grin than he was already wearing.

            “Watch out for the chairs!” he called, and then disappeared around the doorframe just as a loud crash and yelp came from the vicinity of where Jackson and Danny had been a moment before.

            The angry shout of Stiles’ name chased at his heel as they bolted for their cabin.


	41. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is leaving work and it's raining and of course he forgot his umbrella, but Derek shows up and they share one.

            Stiles had spent the day watching the rain come pouring down outside the coffee shop’s windows. It’s wasn’t just raining, or even just pouring; the water was sheeting down from the sky like it was on a personal mission to flood the streets and ruin the hairstyles of anyone who had forgotten their umbrella. Stiles was unfortunately included in that latter group, which was why he was still lingering around the counter despite having hung up his apron and tossed his nametag into the box.

            “Dude, it’s just water. You’re not a freaking cat,” Scott groaned at him.

           “Yeah, well I am a freaking witch… sort of,” Stiles told him, glaring at the door. “Close enough. I could melt out there. How are you not concerned for the well being of your best friend?”

            Scott rolled his eyes at the drama of the statement. “I feel like you’ll probably survive the fifteen yard walk to your car.”

            “What about my hair!” Stiles protested, patting his hand around it. Since he’d grown it out he was actually quite proud of having it look a little stylish even if no one noticed. No one but Scott, who didn’t really care very much.

            “I could shave it for you,” Scott suggested in a tone that said in your sleep if you don’t go home right now. One of them was free to go; which under this management meant get out or you both get in trouble.

            Stiles gave him an appalled look. “No! I-”

            The door jingled politely as someone came in out of the rain, shaking an umbrella that was suspiciously similar to Stiles’. But he’d left his at the loft last night with-

            “Derek!” Stiles exclaimed as the umbrella lowered. “What-”

            “You left this,” Derek told him. He motioned around to the extreme weather they were having. “I thought you might want it back, all things considered.”


	42. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles practicing guitar and getting really frustrated when he makes a small mistake as Derek listens from outside. I leave the song up to your choosing, but something sappy/funny that you think Stiles would play. Or sappy/sad. Whatever.

            He was earning cramps from holding onto the pick for the last three hours, but he straightened his shoulders, rolled his neck to ease the tension, and then repositioned the guitar on his lap. Long fingers delicately smoothed into place on the instrument’s neck and he took a deep breath. “One more time,” he told himself, which was what he had told himself the last twenty times he had started the song.

            But he laid pressed his fingers into the strings and plucked the first note.

 

* * *

 

            Derek stood leaning against the corner of the house. Even if Stiles suspected that he was there he would have to come all the way downstairs and out the front door to see him. He was going to knock, ring the doorbell, catch Stiles’ attention in an appropriate human way because he knew the sheriff was at the station currently. Before he could press the bell, however, the thin notes of a guitar picking at a song that was vaguely familiar had drifted to him on the slight breeze of the clear summer night.

            He’d paused to listen when he realized that it wasn’t a radio; it was Stiles, and he was practicing his new hobby.

            At first Derek had thought he should interrupt. On more than one occasion - all the occasions, if Derek were being honest - Stiles had immediately put away the guitar the moment anyone had happened upon him. Derek liked the way his cheeks flushed, but he didn’t like the embarrassment that radiated from Stiles in waves that were practically tangible. Stiles didn’t fluster easily- not for real.

            As guilty as Derek felt, however, he just closed his eyes and listened to the sweet tune. Once upon a time his father had played guitar, and Derek still remembered sitting in the living room with Laura and singing along to the tunes strummed and plucked from the heart of the weathered old instrument.

 

* * *

 

            Cursing, Stiles tore his hands away from the strings and barely refrained from throwing the guitar across the room in frustration. This should be easy. It was fairly repetitive. It was slow. It was supposed to be easy; he even knew the song. His mom had loved this song; he wanted to learn it.

            Taking a deep breath, he attempted to center himself to try, just one more time. One more time and then it was past midnight and he was going to sleep even though he didn’t have school because Scott liked to turn up at eight am on the weekend and demand video games or hanging out despite that eight am on a Saturday was not a decent hour to be doing anything but going the fuck back to sleep.

            Irritation fully intact, Stiles resettled the guitar on his lap and positioned his hands like he’d been taught. Slowly he picked out the notes, plucking at them a lot slower than he was meant to, determined to get it right in function if not in pace.

            That was when the quiet sound of someone singing filtered in through his open bedroom window, and it took him only a heartbeat to recognize Derek’s voice, softened by the nature of song. Stiles froze, music grating harshly to a stop.

 

* * *

 

            Derek sighed. He’d known it would be a mistake, but he had silently scaled the edge of the house to get to Stiles’ window when he had messed up the chords again. A part of him had hoped that Stiles would just keep playing, maybe be helped having someone to follow along the song with him.

            “Derek?” Stiles called, but Derek could hear he wasn’t getting up.

            Steeling himself, he slipped into view and met Stiles’ eyes. For once there was no scramble to hide the instrument; probably because it was obvious Derek had been listening anyway. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

            “What are you doing here?” Stiles asked, without acknowledging the apology in the slightest. “Is something wrong?”

            Derek’s stomach swooped, not in a particularly good way. He hated that when he showed up Stiles immediately assumed something was wrong. “No,” he said, and when Stiles started to get up to put away the guitar, something within Derek leaped without his permission and he found himself blurting out: “Don’t stop.”

            Hesitating, Stiles looked back to him. “What?”

            “Don’t stop,” Derek repeated, more of a request this time. “Please.”

            For a moment, Derek thought that Stiles was going to refuse him. He was drawn tight as a bow string, just regarding him silently with his brows furrowed. Something must have shown on Derek’s face, because a moment later Stiles settled and pursed his lips. “I’m not any good,” Stiles told him.

            Taking a seat on the windowsill, Derek shrugged. He wasn’t about to deny it; Stiles wouldn’t need to be a werewolf to call bullshit on that lie. But Stiles’ prowess or lack thereof with a guitar was not why Derek wanted to listen. “That’s okay. I just- It’s nice. Watching you learn.”

            Stiles snorted, but he put his fingers back to the strings and began to softly play. Derek closed his eyes and waited for the first few chords to pass, humming under his breath until it was time for words. When he sang, it was soft and low and almost sweet. Almost.

            “All my bags are packed, I’m ready to go, I’m standing here outside your door… I hate to wake you up to say goodbye…”

            Stiles played through the entire song, without missing a note.


	43. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for Ivy's birthday! She asked for Sterek; Fluff, Stiles’ 18th birthday, friendship bracelets, a pool scene, and mutual obliviousness.

           Icy condensation dripped down the side of the red Solo cup in Stiles’ hand as he watched the activity in the water. His friends had gotten their money together and rented out the entire outdoor pool for a few hours so they could celebrate. It wasn’t one particular thing they were celebrating; since they’d had to wait for the venue to even open its doors to the public, they’d decided they could have a group celebration for all of their friends that were turning - or had recently turned, in Stiles’ case - eighteen.

           “It won’t kill you to get in for a little while,” Scott teased from beside him, sprawled sideways in one of the folding deck chairs. He was wearing bright red swim trunks, a glass of lemonade in his hand as well.

           “I’m pretty sure the last time I got into a tub of cold water, it actually did kill me,” he pointed out.

           Scott rolled his eyes. “Seventy degree water is not cold enough to kill you.”

           “I don’t know, I mean, it’s full of werewolves,” Stiles pointed out with a carefully controlled expression. “That’s got to be worse than piranha.”

           “Your entire life is full of werewolves, I think you’ll survive,” Scott said, taking a sip of his drink. “But if you want to avoid it a little longer, there’s something for you on the table.”

           Turning, Stiles quickly scanned the table before spotting the small paper bag, blue and green with ribbons tying the handles shut. He set down the drink, rubbing his hands down his thighs to dry them before he lifted the bag. It was light, almost felt empty. “What is it?”

           “A bomb, what do you think it is?” Scott told him. “It’s from Allison.”

           “We all agreed no presents,” Stiles said, although he was already working to undo the ribbons.

           Scott shrugged. “Then you can bitch at her later. She sent one for everyone.”

           Stiles eyed him skeptically as he undid the last knot and slid the ribbon free. He dumped the contents of the tiny bag into his palm, and gave it a confused look. “Jewelry?”

           Choking a little on his drink, Scott laughed. “No, dude, it’s a friendship bracelet. Well, anklet,” he clarified, holding up his own ankle where a thin band of twine and charms hung.

           Upon closer inspection, Stiles could see that tiny beads with letters on them were woven into the braided twine. He took in each one and realized they were the first letters of names, one for each member of the pack. At one side there was a little, silver wolf charm; to its left was a gun, to its right an open book. “It’s cute,” he decided.

 

* * *

 

           “I didn’t think you’d actually wear it,” Stiles commented a while later, taking a seat next to Derek on the side of the pool. Derek didn’t bother with a response. “Big Bad Wolf, wearing jewelry.”

           Derek rolled his eyes. “It’s not jewelry, Stiles. There are no jewels.”

           “I think it counts if there’s precious metals,” Stiles argued, for the sake of arguing.

           “It’s yarn,” Derek told him, knowing that wasn’t right, waiting with half a smirk to hear Stiles correct him.

           “It’s twine,” Stiles said, right on cue. They shared a soft smile. There had been more of those since Derek returned from his retreat with his sister. Stiles refused to call it a surrender, refused to say he’d run away. He wanted Derek to be done running. He’d never admit it. “Anyway, it’s just weird.”

           Derek heaved a long suffering sigh. “What is ‘weird’?”

           Stiles shrugged. “You. Wearing a gift from a hunter.”

           Flexing his leg, Derek pulled one leg from the water, enough to look at the band of twine around his ankle. Stiles moved his over so they sat side by side, and then smiled. Derek looked over. “I guess we’ve changed a lot lately.”

           Letting his leg drop, Stiles gave an uncomfortable little shrug. “That’s what people do, Derek. They change. They grow up. They have 18th birthday parties to announce they’re finally legal.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at Derek.

           “Apparently they don’t grow up much,” Derek said instead of taking the bait. He’d put up with two years of Stiles making passes at him, he wasn’t about to think the game had changed just because Stiles was eighteen.

           The huff of laughter Stiles let out was breathy and soft, his heartbeat speeding up a little and then slowing. “Yeah,” he agreed. “We’re just… kids, huh?”

           Looking over, Derek tipped his head. “You’re not a kid, Stiles,” he said softly. “You’ve never been just a kid.”

           “Just a friend,” Stiles replied, a little too quickly, heart a little too fast. He was getting better at lying; Derek was having trouble telling the difference.

           He swallowed, folding his hands in his lap, kicking one foot slowly through the water. “If that’s what you want,” he said.

           The snort that followed said a million things Derek didn’t dare hope for. “What if it’s not what I want?” Derek listened to his heartbeat ratchet upward and the second the words were out of his mouth he was shaking his head. “Nevermind.”

           “Is it?” Derek asked, barely a breath. Stiles froze, heart thumping. “Is it what you want? To be friends?”

           Stiles could feel the flush under his skin and it took him a moment of struggling before he responded. “No.” The syllable was bit out softly, an admission of guilt. But it was his 18th birthday, dammit, and if he wasn’t going to get presents or a cake or candles to make a birthday wish with, he was going to get this; a moment of honesty. “I haven’t wanted to be friends for a while now.”

           "Oh.” It sounded like defeat, and Stiles glanced over in time to see Derek give a little nod, clench his hands together once before releasing them to place them on either side of him.

           “Derek,” Stiles said before Derek could get all the way to his feet. “I haven’t wanted to be just friends.” He finally met Derek’s gaze, watched as the words sunk in, watched the light of hope brighten his pale eyes, and he smiled hesitantly. “I mean, if that’s okay. If it’s not okay, then I totally never said anything and we can be just friends forev-”

           “Stiles,” Derek interrupted, a breathy chuckle escaping when Stiles’ jaw clacked shut. He lowered his voice so that it was clear what he was saying was meant for just them, even though it wouldn’t matter; all the werewolves that were paying any attention would hear anyway. “I would love to be something other than just friends.”

           “Just so we’re on the same page,” Stiles started, motioning between them as he clambered to his feet. “We’re talking about more than friends? As in maybe kissing and touching and maybe, like, other stuff?”

           With a small, halting smile, Derek nodded. “You wanna get out of here?”

           Stiles broke into a grin. “I have never wanted to get out of anywhere more.”

 

* * *

 

           “Has anyone seen Stiles?” Lydia asked, gracefully taking a seat at the table near where Scott lounged. “It’s his birthday too. He picked this place.”

           Scott smirked. “He’s uh… out getting his present.”

           Beside him, Isaac’s laugh nearly choked him. “I dare you to call him right now.”

           Nose wrinkling, Lydia set her phone on the tablecloth and picked up one of the solo cups. There was a mathematical equation scrawled on the side instead of a name, and she took a sip from it, leaving behind her favorite shade of lipstick. “He left with Derek didn’t he,” she commented, rolling her eyes a little when both boys nodded. “Finally."

 


	44. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek, Assassins AU. They get money by killing people. Can be them hugging and kissing after a long fight, or them being exhausted and the only thing they need is each other.

            Stiles slammed the door behind him, dragging his gloves off by the index finger as he walked. A moment later the door opened again and Derek followed him in, trialing and silent. He tossed a thick envelope on the long, thin table by the front door, amongst the other mail, heedless of the thousands of dollars it contained.

            “I call first shower,” Stiles spat out, clearly irritated.

            “You’re hurt,” Derek reprimanded, standing firm as Stiles whirled on him.

            “Yeah, I am. I’m hurt and I’m pissed and I’m tired. Really, really tired, and we can’t go to a hospital. So I’m going to shower,” he told Derek.

            Reaching out, Derek snagged his sleeve and tugged him close, right into his personal space. Stiles didn’t resist, went lax in his grip and rested his forehead against Derek’s the moment he was close enough. His hands came up, fingertips pressing against Derek’s chest- not to push him away, just to feel him there. Derek wrapped both arms around him.

            “You’re okay, Stiles,” Derek murmured, the sound rumbling through Stiles’ fingers. Stiles closed his eyes. “The mark’s dead, we’re not, and we didn’t get caught. We have the cash.”

            “It was sloppy.”

            “It’s over.”

            Sighing, Stiles pushed gently and Derek let him go. “Lydia’s still going to be pissed.”

            “You let me deal with Lydia,” Derek told him, dismissing the worry. “Come on. At least let me patch you up. I’ll worry less.”

            “You never worry less,” Stiles groused, but he didn’t object further when Derek followed him up the stairs to the bathroom, or when Derek quietly helped him undress and bathe, or when Derek set down the first aid kit and began to stitch.


	45. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Major Character Death
> 
> Stiles is a ghost and only Derek can see him.

            “Dere~k.”

            The voice was quiet at first, and Derek scrubbed at his ear, thinking he was hearing echoes again.

            “DEREK!”

            Leaping up, Derek spun around to find Stiles standing in the doorway, looking just as surprised as he was. “Stiles? Where the hell have you been? We’ve been looking for you for days.”

            “You can see me?” Stiles asked, sounding completely taken aback.

            “Of course I can see you,” Derek said, skirting around his chair and heading directly for Stiles. “Your dad’s had the whole town on alert, we all thought you were-” he cut off as his arms swept through Stiles and he stumbled forward, nothing where there should have been something.

            “Dead?” Stiles asked blandly, turning around to face Derek, even though he couldn’t meet his eyes. “I am.”

            Stiles wasn’t sure which was worse; the moment he’d figured out he was dead, or watching the moment Derek realized it, and broke.


	46. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack somehow meets the real life crew and Stiles and Derek start arguing and the entire cast is like "OMFG THE FANS WERE SO RIGHT"

            “This… this is wrong,” Stiles said slowly, peering around wide eyed as camera crews scurried around yards away from them. “Something has gone horribly wrong.”

            “You think?” Derek asked dryly, curling his fingers into his palms to hide the claws, instinctual fear driving his shift hard enough that he was having difficult reining it in. “Where the hell are we?”

            Stiles gave him a helpless look and motioned behind them to a perfect replica of Stiles’ room. “I’m going to guess not my room,” he spluttered. “It looks like a- a- a movie set or something. Geezus. It’s like an alternate-”

            “Dylan!”

            “-reality- oh my god,” Stiles said, relaxing as he jumped over the divider that marked the edge of his fake room and began heading for his best friend. “Scott! Thank god.”

            Scott gave him a funny look, glancing to Derek as if asking if Stiles was okay. “You okay, bro? Jeff needs Hoechlin and…” He trailed off, staring at Derek for a long moment. “You’re already in costume. Wow, it looks really good today.”

            The realization that this was not Scott sunk a coldness into Stiles and he stopped short of hugging the newcomer. He glanced back to Derek, who was still wolfed out and looked ready to snap. “Derek?” he asked softly.

            “It all smells wrong,” Derek gritted out. “That’s not Scott.”

            “Yeah, I figured…” Stiles looked back to Scott. “This is going to sound super insane, okay, but I’m not whoever you think I am. My name is Stiles, and this is Derek. We were doing a- stop it.”

            “Stop what?” the newcomer asked, trying not to look like he was doing anything.

            “Stop looking at me like I’ve gone completely insane. God, Scott gives me that look too. Is it really so hard- Look,” he said, waving his hand to dismiss the subject before they could get sidetracked. “We were trying to perform a spell to send a fairy back to her dimension, and it must have… done something else. Gone wrong.”

            “Do you, like, need a glass of water or something? Did you hit your head too hard last scene?” Not-Scott asked, looking concerned. “We have a lot to finish today, Dylan.”

            “I’m not Dylan,” Stiles said seriously. “I’m Stiles and…” Trailing off again, he looked around him as it dawned on him what exactly was going on. “Oh my god. Are we a television show? Are you playing Scott McCall on a television show.”

            Not-Scott laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, and you’re playing Stiles, and he’s playing Derek and we have at least two more scenes to shoot today so cut it out.”

            “You are so dead, Stiles,” Derek growled from beside him. Stiles groaned.

            “I know. You, what is your name? Humor me,” Stiles ordered when Not-Scott looked exasperated.

            “Tyler. Come on Dylan.”

            “Tyler,” Stiles repeated. “Okay, Tyler, listen. I’m not joking.” He motioned between him and Derek. “We’re not from here. We’re from- we- just, stop with the look. Watch.”

            With that, he turned and faced Derek, who was still fighting the shift, still on high alert, expecting to be attacked in this world that smelled just to the left of right. His attention zeroed in on Stiles when the human approached, and he held perfectly still as Stiles reached up and laid his palms to Derek’s cheeks. He reached up, circling Stiles’ wrists with his fingers and hanging on.

            “I need you to calm down, Derek,” Stiles said steadily, staring him in the eyes. “I need you to be in control. I need you to shift back. You’re going to be the only chance we have at convincing anyone here that we aren’t from here, okay, buddy? So please…”

            Forcing himself to center, Derek closed his eyes and seized onto his anchor with everything that he was. He listened to the rhythmic beat of Stiles’ heart, focused on the feel of his skin, the flutter of his breath, and slowly, slowly, forced himself to calm down. There was no threat here, despite how weird everything looked and smelled and sounded. He didn’t have to fight. He had to be human. Derek knew how to be human.

            “Oh my god…” Tyler breathed from behind them, eyes wide. “Oh my god.”

            “Yeah,” Stiles said, giving a breathy, relieved laugh. “We weren’t lying.”

            “No, I mean, yeah, you- but you’re like… are you together? Because that was…” Tyler motioned wordlessly between them, unable to articulate what he was trying to convey.

            Stiles’ brows wrinkled at the same time as Derek’s. “Yes… aren’t we on your show?” He had assumed everything would be the same.

            “Uh… no. I mean, well, not in the show, exactly,” Tyler hedged. “But man. Everyone is going to freak out. The fans were actually right…”

            Stiles and Derek exchanged a look. This was going to be a long day.


	47. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles doesn't know Derek is a werewolf. His reaction to either finding out on his own, or Derek telling him.

            Eyes closed, he relished the feel of Derek’s thumb brushing over his arm, rhythmic and steady, thoughtful. His skin still buzzed pleasantly, sweat cooling in the breeze from the fan, mind fuzzy and content. Beneath his ear, Derek’s heart beat a comforting pattern, loud and strong.

            “Dinner,” he managed to mumble. He’d come here for a reason. His dad had invited Derek over for dinner.

            “I can’t,” Derek sighed.

            Stiles pinched his side, causing him to squirm. “I know you don’t have plans. Dad’s looking forward to getting to sit down with you. He’s not that scary.”

            “It’s not your dad…” Derek trailed off, shifting guiltily. “It’s just… the moon.”

            “The moon?” Stiles repeated, lifting his head enough so he could put his chin on Derek’s chest to look up at him. “So what, like, the planets have to be in alignment for you to have dinner with my family?”

            The way Derek closed his eyes, drew in a careful breath, Stiles knew it wasn’t that. It was more important. He was scared, and Stiles knew it wasn’t because his father was the sheriff, or because he didn’t want to meet him. They had talked about this before. Something was wrong.

            “Whatever it is…” Stiles began.

            “If I tell you something,” Derek interrupted, opening pale eyes to look at Stiles. “Will you promise to believe me? No matter how ridiculous it seems?”

            “Of course,” Stiles told him, confused now.

            Wriggling out from under him, Derek sat and Stiles followed suit without asking why. “And… can you promise me that you will give me a chance to prove what I’m going to say, and maybe… try not to freak out?”

            Fear settled low in Stiles’ belly, because Derek was using the sort of tone people used when they told you they had cheated on you or killed someone or any number of horrible things that should send another person running. Stiles didn’t want to run from Derek. He liked Derek.

            “I can promise to try,” Stiles assured him slowly.

            Derek nodded, as if he’d known that was the best he was going to get, and dropped his gaze to his clasped hands. “Fair enough. I meant… I meant to tell you this sooner, okay? I just- I really like you, and I wanted a little bit of time with you.”

            “Derek, just tell me,” Stiles demanded, throat tight.

            “I’m a werewolf.” He looked up the moment the words were out of his mouth, looking for all the world like he thought Stiles was going to kick him out of his own loft.

            “A werewolf,” Stiles deadpanned. “Like change into a wolf, howling at the full moon, werewolf.”

            “Yes,” Derek confirmed, guilty as Stiles had ever seen him, like it was a sin he was about to be punished for.

            Stiles reached out with both hands, laid them along Derek’s jaw, and held eye contact, concern lighting his features. “Have you maybe considered a psychologist?”

            And that was it, because Derek’s face transformed partway into that of a wolf right in his hands, eyes bright blue, incisors lengthening to fangs, fur sprouting and everything, and Stiles jerked back like he’d been burned. His shout was too loud in the silence of the room, but he didn’t run.

            “Oh my god.”

            “I’m sorry,” Derek told him, though it was a little garbled around the fangs, like maybe he didn’t talk very much when he was like this. “I should have told you sooner. I just-”

            “Can you hear better?” Stiles interrupted, still staring with wide eyes. “Can you smell like a wolf?”

            Derek looked up, confused now. “What?”

             But Stiles was staring at him with open interest, his initial shock left by the wayside in favor of his boundless curiosity. “Can you turn into a real wolf? Or is this it? It’s a full moon tonight isn’t it!”

            “What?” Derek repeated, brain still stalled out over the fact that Stiles had not run away yet. In fact, Stiles was creeping back closer, smoothing his fingers over the extra hair on Derek’s face, studying every new feature, every change that had been made. “Stiles?”

            “This is probably the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me,” Stiles breathed. Then he paused, looking thoughtful. “Well, you know, after you agreed to date me, that is.”

            Stiles felt Derek’s face crinkle in confusion beneath his fingers. “This isn’t the reaction I was expecting,” he said slowly. “You’re… you’re okay with this?”

            At that Stiles sat back a little, giving serious thought to the question. It only took a moment for him to shrug. “I’m gonna freak out about this later. And I’m going to have a lot of questions.”

            “You always have a lot of questions.”

            Stiles slapped his leg. “I meant about werewolves,” Stiles corrected. “Ass. But, I mean, you haven’t hurt me. You haven’t hurt anyone that I know of.”

            “I don’t hurt people,” Derek assured him quickly. “I just- It’s really hard to control on the full moon, especially if I’m stressed and as much as I want to go to dinner with you and your father…”

            “It’s stressful,” Stiles guessed. He took a deep breath, nodding. “Okay. Okay, we can reschedule. Hey,” he said when Derek looked back down to his hands. Stiles smiled when their eyes met. “We can figure this out.”

            “Okay,” Derek agreed, holding out one hand, palm up.

             Stiles slid his hand onto it and gave a small squeeze. Derek smiled.


	48. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alpha!Stiles, because it would be hot to see Stiles throw Derek around a little.

            A little thrill fluttered in Derek’s belly when Stiles pressed him up against the wall, forearm to his chest, amber-brown eyes flashing scarlet the moment before their lips crushed together. There was no softness in the kiss, only anger and claiming and a wash of desperation that had Stiles’ free hand threading into his hair and gripping hard.

            “I leave for half a semester,” Stiles mouthed against the skin of Derek’s throat a moment later, “and you decide to break the truce?”

            Derek’s breath caught when Stiles nipped, not quite hard enough to draw blood. The bruise faded almost as soon as it formed. “I didn’t- didn’t break it,” he gasped, fingers tight on Stiles’ hips.

            The scent of blood blossomed between them as Stiles pricked his skin with the very tip of one canine. A single drop welled before it healed. “I can hear your heartbeat, Derek. You went into McCall territory without permission. Chris called me to come home because Scott wouldn’t.”

            “I called you, too,” Derek said softly, eyes closing and head tipping as Stiles licked a stripe up the cord of his neck. He pressed back when Stiles pressed closer.

            “You know I have school,” Stiles murmured, hot against Derek’s ear. “You could come visit me instead of trespassing.”

            “Not the same.” Derek shuddered as Stiles’ hands smoothed down his arms, long fingers wrapping around his wrists and dragging them up to pin them against the wall beside his head. “You don’t get like this there.”

            “Too many scents,” Stiles admitted, releasing Derek, who took the cue well and didn’t move. His hands traveled down from Derek’s shoulders, over his chest, his belly, resting at the top of his jeans. He looked up to meet Derek’s eyes. “Here, it’s clear when you smell like another pack.”

            “Scott’s pack,” Derek told him. “You were friends once.”

            Stiles growled, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of Derek’s sides. “Still friends.”

            Derek shrugged a little, gave him a narrow, knowing look. “You’re still mad he took Lydia.”

            Rolling his eyes, Stiles nosed under Derek’s jaw as his fingers resumed their mission to relieve Derek of his too-tight jeans. “Whatever,” he muttered. “Just stay out of that territory while I’m gone, okay?”

            Humming his agreement, he leaned into Stiles’ touch. “Okay.”

            Button and zipper undone, Stiles hooked his thumbs into the belt loops and stepped back, tugging Derek along with him. “Good. Now, as long as I’m home, you’re coming upstairs with me, and you’re not leaving until I can’t smell anything but us on you.”


	49. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An awkward meeting with Derek and the Sheriff, where Derek asks for Stiles' hand in marriage.

            Derek had very nearly chickened out, standing in front of the door, thinking about what he was about to do. It was possibly the most terrifying thing he’d ever done, and it was something that - for once - he actually did have to do alone. There was nothing any of the other wolves could do to help. Not even Stiles, who had been by his side far more often than not over the last four years, couldn’t help him here.

            But he had knocked, after screwing up enough courage, and John had opened the door a moment later. He was confused, seeing Derek there alone, but he let him in and lead him to the kitchen.

            “Stiles should be home soon,” the sheriff told him, offering him a glass of water while he waited.

            “I know, sir,” Derek responded softly, accepting the offering. His mouth was dry, but he just tried not to crush the glass in his iron grip. “I came to talk to you, actually.”

            John gave a curious tip of his head, the same sort Derek had seen on Stiles a million times. It was comforting. “Me?”

            Taking a deep breath, Derek nodded. He wasn’t sure he trusted his voice. “Yeah,” he breathed, then raised his head. “I wanted to- to ask you something. Important.”

            His own glass of water in hand, John leaned back against the counter and raised his brows a little. “Okay. Go ahead. I doubt there’s anything you can ask anymore that would surprise me.”

            Derek’s puff of laughter sounded strained even to his own ears. “I was hoping to get- I wondered if…” He swallowed, tried again. “I’d like to ask Stiles to marry me. With your permission.”

            The studious look John gave him was not encouraging. “How long have you two been together?” he asked. It sounded… low. Not quite accusatory. His heartbeat was steady.

            “Three years, sir,” Derek answered. It was a little more, but Stiles had only turned eighteen three years ago.

            “Mhmm,” the sheriff agreed. “And how many times have you pulled his ass out of the fire and he done the same for you?”

            “I lost count around the second dozen,” Derek admitted.

            “Mhmm.” John’s eyes raked over him once, more judgmental than Derek had ever seen him; which was saying a lot. “You’ve had his attention since you two met, and I’m pretty sure he’s had yours. You’ve both been through hell and back, and managed to stick it out anyway. You don’t need my permission, Derek.”

            “Your blessing, then,” Derek managed.

            A smile flared onto the sheriff’s lips, and he nodded once. “ _That_ , you have. And if you need help with the proposal, let me know.”

            Something which had been coiled tight inside of Derek finally let go, unwinding, letting him breathe easier. He nodded in return. “Thank you.”


	50. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott, Isaac, and Derek are injured after a run in with the alpha pack. At the behest of Scott, and much to Derek's consternation, Stiles helps patch Derek up. While trying to play nice with the alpha (and failing), Stiles realizes that while Derek clearly doesn't want to be his friend, he might be hoping to be something more.

            “I kind of have my hands full right now,” Scott said, wiping Isaac’s face clean of mud and blood to see where the injuries actually were. “Can you just-”

            “I’m fine,” growled Derek from where he lay on the floor.

            “You’re so not fine,” Stiles told him from where he sat on the edge of the table. He waved one hand broadly to encompass all of Derek’s… situation. “You’re bleeding all over the floor. It’s gross.”

            “Thank god, or you wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off me,” Derek replied dryly.

            Stiles scoffed. “Was that a joke? It seems like you’re trying to be funny. Keyword: trying.”

            “Stiles,” Scott scolded. The towel in his hand was a ruddy brown-red and Isaac was stripping gingerly out of his shirt. Long lacerations criss-crossed his ribs. “Just stitch him up. And I don’t care if you don’t like needles,” he added when Stiles opened his mouth to protest.

            Rolling his eyes along with half his body, Stiles slithered down from the table and snatched up one of the med kits their group had assembled to keep at the loft. Practically throwing himself onto the floor beside Derek, he pulled out the scissors. “Dude, how many shirts do you go through in a month?” he asked as he began cutting through it rather than trying to get Derek’s arms up. It was shredded anyway.

            Reaching out, Derek closed his hands around Stiles’ to stop them trembling. Stiles looked up, caught his gaze with wide eyes. Derek could hear his heartbeat fluttering like a caged bird. “Calm down,” Derek ordered, but softly. “You don’t have to do this. I’ll heal.”

            After a slow, deep breath, Stiles nodded, but he didn’t withdraw his hands from the warmth of Derek’s. “I know,” he mumbled. “But not as fast. I can do it.”

            Stiles’ hands were trembling less now; he didn’t want to admit that, though it was nerves, it wasn’t nerves about using the needles. He was still shaken up about having watched his friends nearly die. At watching Derek almost die.

            “Okay,” Derek agreed. He gave a gentle squeeze to Stiles’ hands and then let his fingers trail off over his knuckles as he leaned back to rest his head on the floor once more. “Just- okay.”

            “Okay,” Stiles repeated. He closed his eyes, counted to ten in his head, and then set to work.


	51. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is a lifeguard and Stiles is an annoying surfer who keeps irritating Derek early in the morning with small talk, right before Stiles goes surfing. One morning, Derek ignores him, and Stiles feels rejected, and goes out to surf. A huge wave wipes him out and he drowns. Derek saves with him mouth-to-mouth, and Stiles insists on taking Derek out on a date.

            Derek had seen the wave, had seen the kid’s mop of hair go under like it had dozens of times since the summer started. He had waited, albeit a little too tensely for acquaintance levels of concern, for him to resurface, sputtering and cheering at the awesome wipeout. He was supposed to come back and roll himself onto his too-bright-red surfboard, and start hunting for another wave to take.

            The problem was that a minute had passed… and then another began, and Stiles was still not above the water. Derek could see the tapered oval of his board, floating ownerless where he’d gone under, but no Stiles. He wasn’t sure exactly when he started moving, only became aware that he had when his own feet hit the surf and the other beach-goers started clamoring like they always did when one of the coast lifeguards stepped down from their towers.

            Stiles wasn’t hard to find or drag back; he couldn’t have been more than 150 soaking wet, tucked under Derek’s arm, motionless. Derek hauled them both onto shore, laying Stiles on the sand as soon as possible. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered the lifeguard down the beach, Jackson, heading his way to help keep the crowd that was gathering at bay, but Derek’s focus had narrowed to the boy in the sand.

            Come on, come on his mind kept repeating, even as he began emergency care. Wake up! It couldn’t end like this, not after their tiff that morning, not with Stiles thinking Derek didn’t like seeing him every dawn. In that moment, Derek would have given anything to hear Stiles sassing back at him after a lecture on safety or the familiar I wish the world would hold still so it could be sunrise for a little longer that had begun every day for the past two months between them.

            “Come on,” he murmured between breaths.

            And just as he covered Stiles’ mouth with his own again, Stiles sputtered, rolling away from him to heave up water. Relief flared through Derek like fireworks as Stiles fought for breath, gasping and choking and hunched over. Unable to keep his hands off, Derek splays his fingers over Stiles’ back, feeling the contraction of muscles with each cough, feeling the rasp of each breath drawn. He’s alive.

            “I called an ambulance,” Jackson said.

            “I’m fine,” Stiles choked out. He hated ambulances, hated hospitals.

            “You drowned,” Derek argued, more aggressively than he’d intended. Stiles shot him an offended look.

            “Only a little, and you saved me,” Stiles countered, twisting so that he could sit up straight, still clearing his throat and trying to breathe regularly. “So, thanks for that.”

            “It’s my job,” Derek told him, though he realized it sounded stupid even before Stiles looked up and gave him an unimpressed brow-raise. Instead of answering it, he waved off Jackson. “It’s fine, Jackson. Tell them it’s okay.”

            Jackson still looked skeptical, but he backed away a pace and began clearing the bystanders as he radioed back to halt the ambulance. Derek sat staring at Stiles, watching him slowly recover, until they were alone. Then he sighed, carding fingers through his damp hair before shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have tried to take that wave.”

            “You shouldn’t have been such an asshole,” Stiles groused, though his glare didn’t hold any real heat.

            “I’m sorry,” Derek said sincerely, slumping a little. “I didn’t mean what I said and I-” He swallowed, forcing himself to meet Stiles’ gaze. “I like talking to you. I like seeing you here, and I like watching you out there. So just… don’t do this again.”

            The sharp, quick laugh Stiles gave was swallowed in a fit of coughing, but it startled Derek all the same. “Okay,” Stiles agreed, when he was recovered. He smiled, mischievous. “I promise not to die again, if you promise to go on a date with me.”

            Derek leaned back on his hands and gave Stiles a look that said seriously? “So you’re going to die if I don’t date you?”

            Stiles shrugged with all the false innocence he could muster. “Look, I’m not saying there’s more than correlation here, but your kiss did bring me back to life. Not making out with you could be life threatening.”

            “That wasn’t-” Derek cut himself off with a scoff and a roll of his eyes. “Remind me why I saved you?”

            “Because I’m adorable,” Stiles supplied. “So?”

            The sigh he gave was really only for show, because it certainly did nothing to disguise the smile that crept onto his lips. “Okay. One date.”

            Stiles grinned. “Finally.”


	52. Scott x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles + Scott, meeting in the sandbox

            Stiles flinched when the shadow fell across him, his hands halting at patting the damp sand. When nothing else happened, he craned his neck around and looked up at the little dark-haired kid standing beside him. The kid’s brow was furrowed in concentration so Stiles let him think for a moment before he turned back to his task.

            “What are you making?” the kid asked.

            Stiles scowled at the sand. “It’s a  _sand castle_ ,” he said, because it should be  _obvious_.

            “It doesn’t  _look_  like a sand castle,” the kid told him, tipping his head to one side for a new angle. “You’re apposed to build sand castles with buckets.”

            A noise of irritation roughed at the back of Stiles’ throat. “Well, I don’t have any buckets, a-cause my mom  _took them_.”

            The kid’s eyes narrowed and Stiles turned back to his task. “Why?”

            Patting smooth one of the lumps, Stiles shrugged. “I hit Jackson with one of them.” His jawline reddened as he blushed, remembering the incident. “He was picking on Lydia again.”

            The boy took a seat beside him, seemingly decided. “I’m Scott.” He began patting gently at Stiles’ castle, smoothing over a rough patch.

            For a moment, Stiles stared at him, and then he began adding sand to the piles. “I’m Stiles.

 


	53. Derek x Cookies + Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek/cookies with Stiles watching

            He watched intently as Derek turned the plate of cookies, perusing them for which one he wanted. It wasn’t normally such a precise event, but these were  _special_  cookies. These were cookies still warm from the oven, made from scratch by Stiles from a recipe he had found while they were cleaning out the ruins of the Hale manor.

            These the sort of cookies his mother had made them when they were just pups.

            Stiles had dumped dozens - dozens and dozens and dozens - of attempts in private, having stashed the recipe before Derek knew he’d found it. He had sworn Scott to secrecy, even from Isaac, and they had taken heaping plates of cookies to a bake sale at the elementary school. They’d both had to shower thoroughly so Derek wouldn’t notice the scent.

            Finally, Stiles was satisfied that he had the recipe right. The cookies held together nicely, were a little fluffy, the chocolate just the right amount of melted. He had figured out how to sprinkle the sugar crystals evenly over the tops the moment they came out of the oven. They looked like the picture that was paper clipped behind the recipe, the one with little kid Derek holding the plate and beaming.

            Finally, Derek smiled and selected one of the cookies. It was a bit lumpier than the others, probably the worst shaped cookie on the entire plate. He held it up for Stiles to see, and then shoved the whole thing into his mouth.

            “Oh my god,” Stiles laughed. He raised both eyebrows in question, and Derek nodded.

            “You got it,” he said around a mouthful of cookie.

            Stiles snorted, picking one of the prettiest cookies on the plate and taking a bite. It was  _delicious_. He tipped his head, motioning to the plate with one hand. “You picked the worst one.”

            Before he answered, Derek swallowed the cookie. When he smiled, it was a little sad. “Yeah. My mom was terrible at baking.”

            “But-” Stiles stood up a little straighter, pulling the old photo from his pocket. “They looked so nice here.”

            Again, Derek smiled, plucking the photo from Stiles’ loose grasp and taking a closer look. “I made those.”

 


	54. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek adopting a puppy

            Stiles hooked his long fingers through the twisted metal mesh, smiling at the feel of the warm, floppy puppy tongue that greeted him. “I like this one, Derek.” He glanced over his shoulder, but Derek wasn’t even looking in his direction.

            Following his gaze to the end of the aisle, Stiles tried to see what Derek saw. The kennel was not very well lit, the windows showing only darkness outside because they’d had to come after Derek got off of work at the station. He craned his neck, very nearly falling backward on his ass as he tried to get a better view, but in the end he had to stand.

            Derek startled a little when Stiles nudged into him, sparing Stiles half a second before his attention slid back to the end of the hall. “What is it?” Stiles asked. He hooked his arm into Derek’s and tugged him toward where he was staring.

            “Nothing,” Derek tried to tell him, though he was unresisting as they crossed the pound. “The other one was cute.”

            Whatever Stiles might have said stuck heavy in his throat as he stopped at the very last kennel door. It was cleaner than the others, the puppy inside of it asleep on a blue and white mat instead of the metal grating. There was a cast on one of her front legs and it looked as though someone had tried to shave her and done very poorly. Stiles looked to Derek, who was openly staring, back to the puppy, who was twitching in her sleep now.

            Gently, he released Derek. The wolf made no move to follow him as he crossed back to the entrance, where the attending staff member waited against the door frame.

            “What happened to that one?” he asked quietly. He thought maybe Derek could hear over the barking, but maybe not.

            “On the end?” The guy asked, then shrugged, giving Stiles a sad smile. “That’s Gracie. Someone brought her in last week. Guess he found her after some kids caught her on the street. They’d been playing with fireworks, burnt her up. Broke her leg.”

            Stiles swallowed, looking back to Derek. He was standing flush against the kennel door, his fingers through the grate. Stiles could see a little black nose poking through at his shin. “Can we- is she up for adoption?”

            “Yeah,” the guy said. “No one’s come in that wants to foot the vet bill. You want her?”

            “He does,” Stiles said, giving him a smile. “We’ll take her.”


	55. Isaac x Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scisaac + Blindness

            “I put in a cardboard separator between every color,” Scott said, guiding Isaac’s fingers over the soft cottons of the shirts hanging in the closet. “And they’ve got tabs so you can tell where you are. I cleaned the apartment, got rid of some of the extra furniture.”

            “You didn’t have to,” Isaac told him softly, tracing down the line of shirts until he reached the closet door. “You don’t have to do any of this, Scott. I know it’s a pain in the ass.”

            With a pained look Isaac could no longer see, Scott reached out, slid his fingers along Isaac’s as he drew them away from the door. “I don’t have to, I want to, Isaac. I want to work on this with you. I want you to stay.”

            Isaac’s eyes closed, more on reflex than anything, and he smoothed his hand up Scott’s arm, over his shoulder, until he found his face, his jaw. He leaned forward until their foreheads could touch. “It’s going to suck.”

            Tipping his head, Scott brushed their lips together, more comfort than kissing. “I hope it still sucks,” he said, not bothering to hide his grin.

            A soft huff of laughter escaped Isaac, the first since the accident. “You know what I meant.”

            “I know,” Scott agreed. “And I don’t care.” He pressed their noses together and then moved forward until he could pull Isaac into a hug. Isaac’s arms circled over his shoulders and he buried his nose in the crook of Scott’s neck. “I told you in sickness or in health, and I meant it.”

            He felt the curve of Isaac’s smile against his skin, and he held on just a little tighter. They were going to be just fine.

 


	56. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Unresolved bad situation
> 
> Sterek. Earthquake. Blood. Air.

            “You’re bleeding.” The words were soft, rasping over the crumpled basement walls.

            “I’m fine,” Stiles groaned, pressing his hand to his temple. The world listed severely to the right and he closed his eyes. It wasn’t like he could see anything but the low glow of Derek’s eyes anyway. “We need to get out.”

            He heard Derek shifting, the quick gasp of breath through his nose. “There is no  _out_ ,” he said.

            Stiles managed to scoot into an upright position. “What do you mean there’s no out?”

            “I mean, the quake collapsed parts of the tunnel,” Derek replied. Stiles couldn’t see him, but he could see the faint reflection from his eyes against the far wall- the far wall which should have been an open tunnel.

            “You said we would be fine,” Stiles breathed out, his stomach twisting up. “You said-”

            “I know what I said,” Derek cut him off. “I was wrong.”

            “They don’t know where we are,” Stiles reminded him. “They don’t know where to look.”

            Derek didn’t answer, and Stiles supposed it was because he already knew. They hadn’t told anyone where they were going, their phones were still upstairs, and they would quickly run out of air in the enclosed space. Things were  _not_  looking good.


	57. Jackson x Lydia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jydia AU: nerd!Lydia, Jackson is Captain of the college lacrosse team and meets Lydia when Stiles brings her out to practice one day. He sees her talking with him on the bench and.. FEELS THINGS

            It was a perfect, clear day when she first showed up in the bleachers. McCall’s boyfriend brought her along, lead her into the bleachers and spent the practice gesturing around the field, obviously explaining things to her. Game mechanics, team relationships. Jackson wasn’t sure, because he didn’t approach the bleachers the first day.

            He told himself that it was because he didn’t have time to be mucking around with friends of McCall’s, or that practice was intense, or that he had other business, but the truth was that his heart was racing, his skin tingling every time he caught sight of her shock of red hair. He could feel her eyes on him and it became even more important not to screw up while she was watching.

            He had to be  _impressive_. He had to be the  _best_.

            Because she was that sort of girl, she had to be that sort of girl. She was beautiful and her smile was  _stunning_  and he had no idea whatsoever what she was doing hanging out with that Stilinski kid. He figured it had to do with Allison, who was McCall’s sometimes, on-again-off-again girlfriend and Jackson wasn’t going to touch any of that with a ten foot pole, except that he had to in order to even find out the girl’s name.

            It was Lydia Martin, Scott told him before shoving him with his lacrosse stick and telling him to pay attention.

            The second time Stilinski brought her to practice it was a little warmer, and they had books on their laps and Jackson wasn’t sure what he thought about that. He managed to get himself benched for practice, enough that he could wander closer to ask what they were studying, but she steadfastly let Stilinski give him weird looks as she completely ignored him in favor of the physics book cracked open on her lap.

            Pride wounded, he’d left the field that day wondering what he’d done wrong.

            Allison cornered him at the end of the next practice, walking him until his back hit a wall before she laid into him about leaving her friend alone because she was not a  _conquest_. Jackson didn’t know what to say to that; the idea had never even been a consideration when he went to talk to Lydia. It should have been. It always was before.

            But it wasn’t this time and perhaps that, more than anything, was what scared him the most.


	58. Scott x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Ro, who wanted fluffy Sciles with catboy!Stiles and a collar and leash…

            Scott clicked the front door shut, treading lightly as he tuned his hearing toward the inside of the apartment. He could hear a heartbeat and relaxed a little. Though he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where it was, he knew at least Stiles hadn’t gotten out. Things were already a mess, they definitely didn’t need an escapee on their hands.

            “Stiles?” he called softly, not wanting to startle him. “It’s Scott. I know you’re here.”

            A low, deep growl sounded from the direction of the bedroom, and Scott rolled his eyes, tightening his grip on the objects in his hands just a little. When he had left two hours ago, Stiles had been hiding under the bed and it looked like he hadn’t moved at all since. Scott wasn’t sure how he was going to get him out without having to tip over the bed. He didn’t want to tip over the bed; it was new. He also didn’t want a face full of two-inch, sickle claws in his face, so there were decisions to be made.

            Poking his head around the corner of the door frame, he scanned the room quickly. “Stiles?” he said hopefully, like maybe Stiles would be sitting in plain sight if he wished hard enough.

            Another slow, angry growl emanated from under the bed.

            With a sigh, Scott moved into the room, closing the door and giving the edge of the bed plenty of space to avoid having his feet swiped out from under him as he walked. “You can’t stay under there, Stiles,” he admonished, plopping down across from the bed. He could just barely see the tip of a tail twitching in the darkness. “Get out here.”

            For a moment, Scott thought he was going to have to go in after him, but then the soft sound of fur on carpet dragged out, and a tawny face appeared. Scott relaxed a little and held out his hands to show he meant no harm. Stiles eyed him, and then the two objects he’d set on the floor beside him. Scott looked over as well, and sighed. He’d known Stiles wasn’t going to take kindly to seeing the leash and collar.

            “I can’t take you out in public without them,” he said.

            “Fuck you,” Stiles said, though it came out garbled through his feline features. His over-sized ears were pressed flat to his skull and Scott could hear his tail swishing.

            Scott groaned, exasperated. “Come on, we’ve been working on this for the past two days straight, give us a break. Deaton wants to see you tomorrow morning to see what he can do. We’re lucky you’re even a cat I can take into the vet in the daylight.”

            Stretching his paws into the light of the room, Stiles asked: “So you found out what kind?”

            “Deaton thinks serval. It’s an African cat,” Scott said. “It’s funny, because the word means ‘wolf-deer.’ Get it? You’re a cat, but you’re still a wolf-”

            “I’m glad you find my predicament amusing,” Stiles said acidly, interrupting. “Did you find anything useful? Like how to change me back?”

            “Uh, not yet,” Scott told him. “On the bright side, you’re really fluffy.”

            Scott only just managed to dodge as Stiles surged out from under the bed, spotted, tawny coat rippling. His sickle claws sunk into the carpet where Scott had just been sitting. Scott lay on the floor a couple of feet away, laughing as Stiles turned on him again. “That’s not a bright side,” Stiles snarled, though it held no heat. “I don’t want to be fluffy, I want to be human.”

            Inching closer by flexing his shoulder blades, Scott scooted over to where Stiles had lain down on the carpet. His tail was still lashing, ears still pressed back, but he was relaxed. Reaching out, Scott smoothed a hand over Stiles’ head, curling his fingers around the base of one of his overlarge ears, following the line of his jaw. Stiles lifted his chin, giving him access, amber eyes closing.

            “What are…. oh….” Whatever question he had degenerated into a pleased noise, rumbling its way down into a purr. A very loud, somewhat terrifying purr, but Scott smiled anyway because it was the first time he’d heard it.

            “Can’t be all bad,” Scott said soothingly. Stiles didn’t bother opening his eyes, just pressed into the touch, wriggling a little closer.

            “I’ll give you an hour to stop,” Stiles told him, crawling up so that his front paws rested on Scott’s chest. Smiling, Scott lifted his other hand, bringing it up to bury his fingers in the soft ruff of fur around Stiles’ shoulders, and got a face full of whiskers and sandpaper tongue for his effort. With a laugh, he shoved Stiles off of him and managed to clamber onto the bed before Stiles realized what happened.

            He patted the space beside him on the edge of the bed. “Come on. We’ll get up early and fix this, so how about you sleep on top of the bed tonight?”

            Once again, Stiles’ ears laid flat. “I wasn’t exactly… myself last night.”

            Scott sighed. “You have better control today. Maybe it’s temporary and it’ll go away on its own.” He pulled his feet up, kicking off his shoes, and scooted to the far side of the bed. After a moment, Stiles crouched and then sprung up onto the edge of the bed, pawing at the covers until he could get underneath them. Scott let him, then joined him, snaking an arm around Stiles’ slinky waist and dragging him over until they could curl up together.

            “This is weird,” Stiles groused, but he squirmed around until he was comfortable.

            “Shut up,” Scott said with a smile. “Our whole lives are weird.”

            “This is really weird,” Stiles told him.

            “It’s not that weird,” Scott argued, burying his nose in Stiles’ shoulder. It was warm and soft and fluffy. Stiles sighed, turning his head so he could put his chin on the top of Scott’s head, and then he closed his eyes as well. When Scott spoke again, it was soft, muffled by Stiles’ spotty fur. “I promise I’m going to fix this, Stiles. No matter what.”

            Sighing, Stiles let himself relax and trust in Scott. Of course they would fix this. They always fixed it, they always found a way to save themselves, or to save the others. Except that it was Stiles this time, this would be no different.

            When the palm of Scott’s hand started up a slow, steady rhythm on his belly, Stiles began to purr again.

            Maybe being a cat wasn’t _all_ bad.


	59. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has an internet friend who he finally gets to meet (the friend comes to stay with him, or he goes to them) and it's perfect; cue obviously jealous!Derek and oblivious!Stiles. Maybe Derek tries to 'prove' himself. Maybe everyone's surprised Stiles has had such a ~great internet friend for so long. RUN WILD.

            “You can’t just go meet someone off the internet,” Derek told him from the doorway, watching Stiles shove clothing into the tiny, carry-on suitcase. “You have no idea who this guy really is.”

            Of course Derek couldn’t see the eye roll, but he saw Stiles’ shoulders join in, an exasperated sigh escaping him. “I’m not an idiot, Derek,” he said tiredly. “I’ve been talking to Stuart for like a year.”

            “Yeah, and people talk to internet people for ‘like a year’ and still get murdered,” Derek said, scowling. He didn’t like this plan at all.

            Stiles shot a look over his shoulder, eyes narrowing just a little. “I think after two years of dealing with all the bullshit supernatural catastrophes of Beacon Hills, I can handle meeting one friend off the internet.”

            “That’s not what I meant,” Derek groused, looking uncomfortable. He shifted and crossed his arms over his chest, not quite looking at Stiles.

            “I know what you meant,” Stiles told him, turning back to his packing. “And it’s not really- I’m not yours, Derek. If I want to go visit other people, I’m going to go visit them, even if I’ve only ever talked to them through the computer. Just because you don’t trust technology doesn’t mean it’s untrustworthy.” He zipped the bag with a little more force than was strictly necessary. “Doesn’t mean I am, either.”

            “I know, Stiles,” Derek sighed, crossing the room in two long strides until he was standing behind Stiles. He hesitated but Stiles didn’t move away and when Derek slipped his arms around Stiles’ waist, Stiles relaxed into his grip, head tipping back to rest on Derek’s shoulder. “I just don’t like it, okay?”

            “Because you have to share?” Stiles guessed, eyes closed.

            Derek couldn’t help the little grumble he made at that, but he nosed softly against Stiles’ ear in apology. “I don’t want to share.”

            “But you will.” Stiles opened his eyes, tilting his head until he could look askew at Derek.

            “Will it make you happy?” Derek asked. He knew it sounded defeated and he didn’t care.

            “Yeah,” Stiles said.

            With a deep breath in, then out, Derek kissed his temple and let him go. “Then I have no business stopping you.”

            “Do you want to see him?” Stiles asked, wriggling away from Derek and heading for his desk. He pulled open a drawer and pulled out a worn photo with writing scrawled over the back. Before he turned it right side up, Derek caught sight of what looked like a phone number.

            He accepted the photo, tipping it up to finally see the guy Stiles was going to visit. Messy, brown hair, amber-brown eyes, thick-rimmed glasses and an unmistakably familiar pattern of moles dotting his skin. Derek’s eyes widened and he looked up to Stiles, who was smirking. “What-”

            “He bears a striking resemblance, don’t you think?” Stiles asked, way too smugly. He rolled his eyes and snatched the picture from Derek’s loose grasp, tossing it on the desk. “He’s my twin, okay? So you can relax. I didn’t want to tell anyone in case… it didn’t work out, you know?”

            Derek scowled, but he knew it didn’t do anything to dampen the relief etched into his features. “You’re such a little shit sometimes,” he murmured as Stiles laughed and wrapped him up in a hug.

            “And you’re so easy to rile up,” Stiles returned, burying his nose in Derek’s shoulder. “I’ll call tonight when I get in. We can do a video conference.”

            “Oh god no,” Derek groaned. “You’re enough of a handful alone… I don’t know how I’d handle two of you.”

            “I can think of a few ways,” Stiles murmured, teasing. Derek just rolled his eyes.


	60. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles making Derek jealous

            It was two months after Derek left that the new deputy got hired. Stiles didn’t pay much attention - after all, no one could replace Tara - beyond the fact that it was some young guy, barely older than Stiles himself. He looked vaguely familiar the two times Stiles saw him in passing, but he didn’t stay long enough to remember where he knew him from. It wasn’t until Stiles turned up late at the office looking for his father that he’d recognized the deputy.

            It was Parrish.

            Heather’s older brother.

            Stiles flushed a brighter red than he had in a long time when he realized it, his chest tight with the stark reminder of the loss of his childhood friend. He thought he’d heard something about him being back in town, but college had apparently been good to him while he was gone; so good that Stiles could hardly believe it was the same guy.

            When he asked why Parrish came back, Stiles found himself regretting it. Of course he was back in town because of his sister, and of course he intended to figure out just what exactly happened. Of course he wanted to put his nose right in the middle of the other-worldly war going on behind the scenes in Beacon Hills, and of course it was Stiles’ job not to let him. Of course it became Stiles job to keep the guy from finding closure over his sister so his friends could stay safe.

            It wasn’t hard. Parrish was actually pretty nice, even if Stiles barely managed to keep a straight face around him when he remembered exactly whose condoms he’d stolen to do unspeakable things to the same person’s younger sister.

            Stiles really, sincerely hoped that Parrish could not - and would never be able to - read minds.

            It didn’t matter, though, because whatever happened before, Stiles had to make sure that Parrish remained in the dark now. Scott and Isaac were still on edge with one another over Allison, who was ignoring both of them in favor of hanging out with Lydia, who was a headache unto Stiles all by herself every time he saw her with Aiden. So, hanging out around the station, keeping an eye on his father and the other on Parrish was really not a chore.

            Especially not when Parrish was so damn attractive.

            It wasn’t like Stiles was particularly crushing on him or anything - he’d had enough of that for a lifetime already - but it was easy to flirt with those gorgeous blue eyes. Of course, Parrish was sort of a sucker for his attention because Stiles was the only one who seemed to listen when he started talking about things not being quite right around the town. The sheriff downplayed every suggestion that seemed to lead down certain paths and the hospital kept spitting out the same wry, charming nurse to answer his questions every time he visited. Without fail she gave him exactly the right amount of completely useless information before she started suggesting that perhaps there were more important things for him to be doing than looking at cold cases.

            It went like that for another two months before Scott called Stiles to tell him that Derek was back.

            That was when Stiles knew it wasn’t a crush in either case; his visits with Parrish didn’t hold a candle to the crushing feeling of relief and hope he felt to hear those words out of Scott’s mouth.

            They didn’t get to see one another right away; Derek was busy dealing with wresting control of his parents’ estate back from Peter, who’d bought it back from County almost as soon as Derek disappeared. It was still a burned out hull of a building, but it was Derek’s burned out hull of a building, and he needs to make sure it said so on paper, especially since he had let the lease on the loft lapse.

            So it was almost two weeks more before Stiles saw Derek again, the day he walked into the department, his nose in a short stack of papers he’d obviously spent time filling out.

            “Hey, Derek,” Stiles called from his perch on the edge of Parrish’s desk.

 

* * *

 

            The last voice he expected to hear was the first one that greeted him as he entered the police department. His head jerked up like he was on puppet strings, his chest seizing up tight as he laid eyes on Stiles for the first time in almost five months. He’d been avoiding this, keeping himself busy so that he would have an excuse to stay away a little longer even though he was nearby. He wasn’t prepared to see Stiles again, not after Cora had confronted him about the human.

            Not since he realized he was completely smitten and had no idea if Stiles felt the same.

            Obviously not, Derek thought to himself when he spotted Stiles sitting comfortably on the desk of someone Derek didn’t recognized. They smelled of one another, like time spent around each other, and Derek hated the guy instantly.

            “Hello, Stiles,” Derek greeted, a little colder than he’d intended. He hadn’t been prepared for it to hurt this much to see Stiles moving on. “I just… have some paperwork to turn over.”

            Stiles held out his hand, making a grabbing motion. “Hand it over, what is it?”

            “Just... things,” Derek said, not handing over the papers. The deputy - at least Derek thought he was a deputy, judging by the uniform and the desk space - was regarding him calmly with just a hint of curiosity. Derek couldn’t help but wonder how much Stiles had told him. “Don’t you have school tomorrow?”

            Patting the stack of paper beside him, Stiles grinned. “Yeah. I was doing homework. It’s crazy how much time I’ve had for homework lately.”

            Derek didn’t have to ask as opposed to what, because he knew. Stiles had more time now that the town had calmed down. Since Derek had left, taking his bad luck with him. “That’s good,” he said. He hoped it didn’t sound as lackluster to Stiles as it did to his own ears.

            “Oh,” Stiles said, straightening. “You haven’t met the new deputy.” He hopped to his feet and presented the man. “This is Deputy Sheriff Parrish. Deputy, this is my-”

            “Derek,” Parrish interrupted, voice smooth. He smiled, and Derek hated him more. “I remember him from high school. You skipped town after the fire.”

            Derek hackled, but Stiles was already stepping between them. “He didn’t-”

            “I’m sorry about your sister,” he said, and before Derek could vault Stiles and rip the new Deputy’s throat out, he added: “I lost my sister, too.”

            And that was it. Derek’s shoulders dropped at the heavy loss in the guy’s voice, and he met Stiles’ eyes. “Thanks,” he said softly.

            “Parrish is Heather’s older brother,” Stiles explained, gentle, like Derek might bolt, but he didn’t need to explain. Derek got it; they’d bonded over the loss of Heather while Derek went missing. He should have stayed.

            “Ah,” Derek said, because he had nothing else to offer. The deputy gave him an odd look, but Derek just set the papers on the edge of his desk, leaning around Stiles to do so. Jealousy snaked through him as he caught their mingled scents, but there was nothing he could do about it now.


	61. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek: synchronized heartbeats.

            The first time Derek noticed it, he was standing next to Stiles at the table in his loft, the maps of the town still spread haphazardly over the surface. Stiles was sitting on the edge of the chair with the grouchiest expression on his face and a bowl of cereal in one hand, almost aggressively taking bites of it and staring into space.

            He had never seen Stiles look so tired. It wasn’t that he had stayed the night so much as that Derek had been too tired to chase him away. He still couldn’t muster the strength it would take to get him to leave, not when Derek had already accepted that he wanted him to stay.

            So he just leaned against the window, his eyes partially slit closed as he considered whether or not Stiles would notice if he took a nap standing up… and that’s when he heard it.

            A steady, even thump-thump. Thump-thump.

            Echoed precisely in the beat of his own heart where his fingertips touched his arm.

            He listened, for a long moment, his eyes completely closed, as their hearts beat in tandem. He wasn’t sure which heart was matching the other; all he knew was that they beat together, perfectly.

            “Derek,” Stiles said after a bit, and Derek opened his eyes. “What are you smiling about?”

            “It’s nothing,” Derek said, because he didn’t know how else to say it.

            Surely it was a fluke. A nice one, but a fluke none-the-less.

            It didn’t matter anyway; he was leaving town in a couple of days.

            Which would have been fine, completely fine, if Stiles had never called, except that he  _did._  It wasn’t even a whole week before Stiles’ number showed up on Derek’s phone. He answered, if only so he couldn’t torture himself listening to a voice message repeatedly, and the first words out of Stiles’ mouth were: “Please come home.”

            “I can’t,” Derek told him, because he couldn’t, because there were so many bad memories, so many horrible places, so much that had wounded and scarred him. He needed time. He needed sunshine and open road and his sister’s scent, her laugh.

            “I don’t-” Stiles cut himself off with a sharp sigh and then tried again. “I hate that you’re not… here.”

            “I’m sorry,” Derek said. There wasn’t anything else to say, not from either of them, and so Derek listened to the in and out of Stiles’ breath, to the soft thump-thump of his heart of the other end of the line.

            It was only after he hung up that he felt his heart change rhythms and he realized that once again it had beat alongside Stiles’.

            After that, he listened for it. When Stiles called, he would listen beneath however few words they spoke, counting the beats, feeling his blood pulse in his fingertips. If he was more quiet than usual, Stiles didn’t mention it.

            When Derek finally did return, a few months later, it was Stiles who turned up at his new apartment first. He was alone because Cora had taken off again a week ago and Derek had only come back because he didn’t want to be completely alone. Stiles didn’t mention that, either, he just stepped inside the apartment, into Derek’s space, and hugged him.

            It was awkward for a moment, until Derek buried his nose in Stiles’ shoulder and wrapped his arms around his midsection, hanging on as if nothing else mattered in that moment. Maybe nothing did. Maybe all that mattered was the earthy scent of Stiles, the fabric of his hoodie in Derek’s grasp, the beat of his heart in Derek’s ears, matching Derek’s, always matching Derek’s.

            And if anything else had ever mattered, Derek thought maybe it stopped the moment Stiles pulled back just enough to put their foreheads together, just enough to whisper  _welcome home_  in the space between their lips before Stiles was kissing him.

            Later, much later, after Stiles had nudged and crowded and kissed him all the way into the bedroom, slender hands tugging at clothing, after all of the soft words and smooth touches, Stiles lay with his cheek on his hands on Derek’s belly, cradled between his legs, and he smiled.

            “What are you smiling about?” Derek asked him, echoing the question Stiles had asked so long ago. He knew that, this close, Stiles could hear Derek’s heartbeat, could hear and feel the matching rhythms just as well as Derek could.

            “Everything,” Stiles murmured.


	62. Lydia x Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scydia: Kindred, inevitable, time

            Scott pushed lightly against the rail in front of them with one foot, rocking the porch swing faintly. Snuggled into his side sat Lydia, her eyes roaming over their backyard, at the kids crawling and shouting on the wooden swingset. Isaac stood at the edge of the group, making sure that no one got hurt, while Allison and Stiles bickered at the fire pit over how to build the best fire.

            “This,” Lydia murmured, her smile leaking into her words.

            “Hm?” Scott hummed, rubbing his cheek against her greying, strawberry-blonde hair. She’d just stopped dying it a couple of weeks ago.

            “This is what we paid for,” Lydia told him quietly. “This is what we spent so long fighting for.”

            Scott’s gaze flicked up to their friends and family, to their grandchildren. “It’s worth it,” he said.

            Her grip tightened on his hand. “Did you think we’d make it this far? That we’d end up here?” she asked, so quietly the wolves in the area would ignore her, if they heard her at all. “When all of this started?”

            “I don’t know,” he said. “We spent so much time trying to just keep our heads above water.” He let out a long breath as he thought about it, remembering before they’d gotten their act together, organized into the solid pack they still were today. “Maybe… maybe I hoped.”

            She smiled, giving a little nod. “It always felt a little inevitable to me,” she admitted. “Like, if we can just survive this, and that, and the next, and the next, that this is where it was going. The light at the end.”

            “It’s not  the end,” Scott told her with a laugh.

            With a pinch to his thigh she said: “It’s certainly not the beginning.”

            “No,” Scott agreed. “It’s the middle; it’s the best part.”

            At that, she laughed. “Yeah, you’re right,” she conceded. Sitting up, she kissed his cheek and then clambered to her feet. “Come on, we’d better go help Stiles and Allison before they set the yard on fire.”

 


	63. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek. First date. Aquarium.

            “This had better not be something stupid,” Stiles said, eyes closed against the fabric tied loosely over his eyes. “That was way too long of a drive for a movie or something.”

            “It’s not a movie,” Derek told him, guiding him with one hand on the small of his back.

            Stiles scowled half-heartedly, listening to the crowd all around them. He lifted his nose, the scent of water and salt and fish strong in the air. “The beach? Oh my god, I didn’t bring a bathing suit, Derek.”

            “It’s not the beach,” Derek said, and Stiles could hear the smile in his voice. The bastard was so smug about having kept this a secret. “We’re almost there, stop dragging your feet.”

            Giving in, Stiles let himself be guided down the sidewalk, never once bumping into anyone along the way. Derek kept his hands on him, telling him when to step and when to dodge, and held the door for him. The inside of the building felt huge. Distantly, he could hear a low hum, constant just below the thrum of the crowd.

            “Oh my god,” Stiles breathed, laughing a little. “You big nerd. Did you bring me to a museum?”

            Derek’s only response was to untie the blindfold, tugging it gently away from Stiles’ eyes and folding it to put it into his pocket. He watched with a wide smile as Stiles’ eyes swept up toward the ticket booths and onward past them, to the whale models suspended from the ceiling. Stiles knew Derek could hear his heartbeat climbing.

            “It’s an aquarium,” Stiles blurted, turning to look at Derek and then back to the signs. “It’s the aquarium. You remembered.”

            Derek's soft smile was answer enough. “I remember everything, Stiles.”

            “You remember why I wanted to come here?” Stiles asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

            “Because you spent a month talking about their penguin cam,” Derek said, a little groan wrapping around the words as he remembered listening to Stiles talk about it over and over. “How could I forget?”

            Stiles laughed, and then reached out his hand, holding it palm up to Derek. “I’m glad you remembered. But…”

            “But?” Derek prompted, hesitating before placing his hand in Stiles’ and intertwining their fingers.

            “You set the bar kinda high, taking me here for our first date,” Stiles said with a grin.

            Rolling his eyes, Derek pulled him over and kissed his cheek. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

 


	64. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek - wedding vows, mates and magic.

            Stiles traced his fingers over Derek’s open palm, his chin resting on the top of Derek’s head. They lay stretched out on the couch, Derek nestled between Stiles’ legs, eyes half-hooded with drowsiness. “We should write our own,” he said, soft and warm.

            Derek hummed acceptance of whatever it was Stiles wanted them to write. Then he stirred, shifting a little as he realized what Stiles was talking about. “Vows?”

            “Yeah,” Stiles said, giving him a smile. “I mean, the standard ones are sort of boring, right?”

            “I don’t know,” Derek said honestly. “I’ve never been to a wedding.”

            “Everyone’s been to a wedding,” Stiles said. “Or saw one on TV.”

            “Not me,” Derek told him. He shrugged, and Stiles realized that he didn’t exactly have a lot of family that would be getting married, and being on the run probably meant not many friends.

            “Okay. Well, they’re simple ones, like… to love each other in sickness and in health, for rich or for poor, ‘til death do us part,” Stiles explained. “You know, basic.”

            “They sound good,” Derek murmured. “Really good.”

            Stiles pressed a kiss to Derek’s temple and settled back against the plush arm of the couch. “Yeah, I mean, they’re good for normal people.”

            “And we’re not normal people?” Derek asked, settling back down as well. He smiled when Stiles’ fingers resumed tracing patterns on his open palm.

            Snorting, Stiles traced part of the rune for Guardian into Derek’s palm, watched it turn blue and begin to glow. A tiny wolf leaped into being, chasing its tail around Derek’s wrist. “I’m a runecaster. You’re a werewolf. Our friends are werewolves and hunters and banshees and druids. I’d say we’re not really normal, Derek.”

            “Fair enough,” Derek conceded. “What would you make our vows?”

            For a bit, Stiles was actually silent, long enough for the little blue wolf to wink out and Derek’s eyes to droop closed again. “I’d vow to stay with you through all the full moons,” Stiles said. “Aaand, I think until death do us part is a little too soon, all things considered.”

            “All things considered?” Derek asked, amused.

            “I’ve watched you die at least twice and thought you were dead more times than that,” Stiles reasoned.

            “You saved me a few times, too,” Derek pointed out.

            “Yes thank you for that reminder of how often we shake hands with death,” Stiles said dryly. “Hey, that’s what we should say. I will love you no matter how many times we die.”

            A snort of laughter escaped Derek as he tried futilely to turn it into a cough. “I hope whoever is overseeing it knows us.”

            “We could get Peter to do it,” Stiles suggested. “He registered with that online thing last year.”

            He couldn’t see it, but Stiles knew that Derek was making a face. “I told you not to let him.”

            “I’m big on letting Peter do anything,” Stiles said with a laugh. “We’ll figure it out.”

            They fell to silence again, and Derek closed his eyes. After a while, he mumbled sleepily: “I would vow… I think I would vow to do my best to bring light to your darkness. To make you smile every day.”

            Stiles’ puff of laughter was warm in Derek’s hair. “You do,” he admitted. “You already do.”

            “It’s different,” Derek said quietly. “I’d get to vow to do it forever.”

            “Okay,” Stiles conceded. “Then let’s do that. Let’s make our own.”

            “Okay,” Derek agreed, snuggling down just a little more.


	65. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek - lampost, rain, gun.

            The rain was coming down in sheets, soaking straight through his clothing and seeping into his skin. He’d told them this was a bad idea. He’d told them it was going to rain, and they weren’t going to be able to see anything once they got inside anyway. Now he was alone, gun clutched tight in his hand as he strained to hear any sign of life. He’d stopped wiping the water from his eyes; it didn’t help.

            Throwing one last glance around to be sure that he wasn’t followed, Stiles knelt to the ground beside the lamp post, opening the small breaker box at its base with clever fingers and cleverer lock picks. It took a few moment of fiddling with what he found inside, but then the pale yellow light was flickering on above him, a beacon to the others.

            He sensed more than heard the moment he was no longer alone. Closing his eyes and mentally cursing himself for letting his guard down so long, Stiles lunged to his feet, bringing his gun to bear.

            He was too late.

            The shot hit dead center of his chest, red blossoming and dripping down with the rain.

            “You are such an asshole,” Stiles said, letting his gun fall slack as he shoved at lightly at the grinning werewolf before him. “You’re supposed to be on my team.”

            “I am on your team,” Derek told him, leaning into his space and giving his wet cheek a kiss. As he did so, he smeared a hand through the paint on Stiles’ chest and then dragged it over Stiles’ other cheek.

            He laughed, clutching at his chest when Stiles shot him for good measure, his hand coming away an even brighter mess of red. Stiles stuck out his tongue, scrubbing at his face with the back of one wrist. The rain was already washing clean their garments. It was stupid, breaking in and trying to play paintball in the rain. All their points kept washing clean, reviving everyone before the game could end.

            “You see the others?” Stiles asked, kicking closed the lamp’s switch box.

            “No,” Derek answered, rubbing at the paint on his shirt. Stiles eyed him as he moved closer again, backing Stiles up against the lamp post. “They’re across the park having a showdown.” He tipped his head, listening to things Stiles couldn’t possibly hear. “I think Isaac’s winning.”

            “Mm.” Stiles reached between them, curling his fingers into Derek’s multi-colored shirt, and dragged him in close. “Then we should have a little bit of time for me to teach you about teamwork.”

            Chuckling, Derek pressed his lips to Stiles’, warm hands sneaking under his soaked shirt to splay over his cold ribs. “Okay,” he said against Stiles’ lips. “Let’s do something together.”


	66. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek: Looking for apartment

            “I like this one,” Derek said softly as they crossed the threshold. It smelled clean, but there was an undercurrent of some pleasant scent he couldn’t place.

            Stiles looked over, surprised. “Really?” He looked to their real estate agent, who looked just as bewildered and gave him a shrug. “Uh… sure, why?”

            They’d been to a dozen apartments in the last week, and this was the first one Derek had admitted to liking. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, uncomfortable at the scrutiny. “I just do,” he said gruffly.

            Holding up both hands in a gesture of surrender, Stiles nodded. “Okay, cool. Let’s take a look around then?”

            They abandoned the agent at the doorway and moved farther into the apartment. Derek swept his gaze up the soft white walls of the kitchen as they walked through it. The counters were not new, exactly, but they were not very old, either. All of the cupboards stood open, the shelves inside clean and clear of debris. He could smell the spices that had been stored in the cabinet over the fridge space. He could imagine the cooking that had taken place here.

            “Nice kitchen,” Stiles said, as if reading his mind. “Electric stove. We’d have to get a fridge.”

            “Good,” Derek said, scrunching his nose. He hated the thought of using someone else’s fridge. “This one has three bedrooms, doesn’t it?”

            Stiles glanced down to the paper in his hands, and he squinted at the tiny print. “Yep.” Reaching out, he tugged Derek’s hand out of his pocket and threaded their fingers together. “This way.”

            He lead Derek through the living space and every room only convinced Derek that this was the place he wanted. If the paint was peeling on some of the walls, the carpet was fresh and new. The entire place was imbued with a sense of home even without any furniture in it, and Derek found that he just  _ _wanted__  it.

            “Can we-” he started, standing at the entrance of the last room. It was the master bedroom and it was beautiful. The carpet was dark blue and the walls were a matching, lighter blue. There was plenty of space for as big a bed as they wanted and there were two walk in closets for their stuff.

            Stiles poked his head out of one of the closets, a smile on his face. “Can we?” he prompted.

            “I like this one,” Derek repeated. Stiles exited the closet and Derek watched him as he crossed the room.

            “And?” Stiles said, stopping close enough to touch.

            Derek sighed, exasperated, but he surrendered. “Can we keep it?”

            Smiling, Stiles curled the fingers of one hand into the fabric of Derek’s jacket and pulled him close for a quick kiss. “Of course we can.”


	67. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sterek: bickering, boat.

            Stiles lay in the bottom of the sail boat, watching the sail hang loose on the mast. Somewhere behind him he could hear Derek fiddling with something, metal clanking on metal punctuating him muttering to himself. Lazily, Stiles shifted his gaze to the puffy white clouds in the bright blue sky. They weren’t moving much, either.

            “Take a boat ride,” Stiles mumbled. “It’ll be fun, he says.”

            “It was fun,” Derek interjected from across the small boat. “Until we lost the wind.”

            “You can’t  _ _lose the wind__ , Derek,” Stiles shot back. “It’s really big.”

            He didn’t have to see him to know Derek was rolling his eyes at him. “I have paddles if we need to get back to shore. I just… want to fix this.”

            “Oh my god, I’m not paddling back to shore,” Stiles said. “Stop making that face at me.”

            “I wasn’t making a face,” Derek said, though his tone said that yes, he had been. “Anyway, we may not have a choice if the wind doesn’t pick back up.”

            “I could swim back,” Stiles suggested. “Or we could pick a better date activity next time.”

            “Sailboating is a very good dating activity,” Derek said. Stiles rolled his eyes at the scowl in the words. “When it works.”

            Stiles sighed, but he smiled just a little bit anyway.


	68. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek: brand new baby

            Stiles stood with his arms partially folded over his chest, hands gripping his elbows and his forehead resting against the cool glass of the maternity ward’s nursery. He had to keep reminding himself to breathe, each breath he let go of fogging the glass a little before it faded. A soft smile played on his lips as he watched her sleeping, tiny wrinkled fist shoved against her lips.

            “I wonder what they dream about,” he murmured.

            Derek smiled. There was no way the babies could hear them through the thick glass, but he kept his voice low as well. “Past lives,” he offered. “Or the answers to the universe.”

            Without taking his eyes off of the newborn, he unfolded one arm and reached to shove lightly at Derek. “You know what I mean. We dream about all the stuff we’ve done, but she hasn’t done anything.”

            “Maybe that’s why they sleep so well,” Derek said.

            At that, Stiles laughed. “Dude, babies are, like, notorious for not sleeping well.”

            Derek rolled his eyes, and they both returned to watching her in silence. After a few moments, Stiles scooted closer to Derek, his forehead squeaking on the glass and leaving a forehead-print trail that had Derek biting his tongue until Stiles lolled his head to the side, resting it on Derek’s shoulder.

            “Are we really going to take her home?” he whispered.

            Sighing, Derek rested his cheek against Stiles’ head. “Yeah,” he murmured. His heart leapt at the affirmation. “She’s going to scream and cry and we’re both going to be so tired of changing diapers and warming bottles of milk and waking up at 2am.”

            “And you’re going to turn into the biggest softie puppy the first time she curls those little fingers around just one of yours,” Stiles added for good measure. He smiled as well, excitement welling up fresh inside him. “And you’re going to think it’s all worth it when she smiles at you.”

            “Yeah,” Derek agreed. He turned to kiss the top of Stiles’ head, unfolding his own arms to wrap one around his husband. “And you’re going to be ten times worse.”

            “Oh yeah,” Stiles said with a chuckle. “And you’ll love us both for it, right?”

            Derek took in the sight of the tiny sleeping baby, the warm feel of Stiles pressed into his side, and smiled. “I already do.”


	69. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Major character death. This is an alternate ending for ,a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/11568594">this fic.
> 
> Ravewulf: I don't suppose you'd be willing to give us a happy ending in heaven for both Stiles and Derek to that paralysis fic? Pretty please? *puppy dog eyes*

            Derek wearily pushed open the plain, wooden door to the house, shrugging out of his coat as he kicked it shut behind him. It was cold out, or it had been. Late November. The pack had taken him out to a nice restaurant for his birthday, and made him take a silly picture for his grandson on the phone because he was across the country that weekend. Derek didn’t mind; video chatting had gotten so easy.

            He hung his coat and scrubbed a hand through his silvery hair, freezing as he turned to face the interior of the house.

            Perched in his favorite armchair was a very familiar face.

            “Stiles,” he breathed out. He’d had this dream before.

            “You’re late,” Stiles said, then cracked a grin at his own joke.

            “I’m dreaming,” Derek told him, taking a step closer, and then another. “I have this dream a lot. You’re always so young.”

            “You’re one to talk,” Stiles shot back, nodding to Derek’s hands.

            When he looked down, Derek’s eyes widened. The wrinkles and age spots were gone, replaced with smooth, soft skin. He looked back up, and Stiles smiled a little sadly.

            “In your sleep,” Stiles told him, getting to his feet. “I was watching. I’ve watched over you since the day I died, waiting for you to get here.”

            For the first time, Derek looked around himself. What he had thought was his home, the one he had told Stiles they would get together, was not quite the same. Here there were years more decorations, signs of their life together scattered around so casually. He smiled, hesitantly, and Stiles wrapped him up in a hug.

            “You’re home,” Stiles said quietly into his shoulder.

            With a small noise of surrender and happiness, Derek reached up and held tight to Stiles for the first time in decades. “I’ve missed you so much.”

            “Never again,” Stiles assured him, palm smoothing up and down his back. “This time it’s forever.”


	70. Isaac x Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scisaac - gold, wine, fire, scent

            Scott stood patiently in the doorway of their home, shifting from foot to foot, and trying to keep his nose to himself. It wasn’t working well, because he could smell the burn of the fire, the rich aroma of a hand-cooked meal, and the faint scent of something tangy he couldn’t place. The blindfold was itchy but Scott wasn’t willing to take it off without permission

            “No peeking?” Isaac asked as he padded back over to Scott, heartbeat thrumming.

            “No peeking,” he assured him with a grin. “You should have given me a nose plug.”

            He could envision the little, bitchy frown Isaac gave him, and then Isaac’s hand was warm and steady on his forearm. He allowed Isaac to lead him down the hall and into the family room, where he could hear flames licking at the metal grate in front of the fireplace. When they finally came to a stop, Isaac stepped into his space, chest brushing his as he reached up to untie the blindfold.

            “Tada,” Isaac whispered, stepping away and taking the strip of fabric with him.

            Scott cracked open his eyes, breath catching at the sight laid out before him. An old quilt his grandmother had made was spread over the carpet in front of the fireplace, just far enough away to be warm. Atop it lay dishes filled with one of Scott’s favorite meals, and Scott thought he recognized the china from his mom’s cabinet. There was a bucket of ice and a bottle of red wine that Scott suspected was not of the cheap variety, and two wine glasses set beside it.

            “Wow,” he blurted, then blushed as Isaac broke into a winning smile. “This is fantastic, Isaac.”

            “Sit,” Isaac instructed. “Before it gets cold.”

            Hurrying to obey, Scott took a seat on the close side of the blanket as Isaac knelt across from him. When he reached for one of the serving spoons, Isaac intercepted him with both hands. He looked up in question, and Isaac smiled. There was that rushing heartbeat again, and Scott couldn’t imagine Isaac was worried about him liking the food; Scott loved everything Isaac cooked for them.

            “Maybe you should try that one first,” Isaac suggested, motioning with his eyes to the only still-covered dish on the blanket. It was small, probably a sauce or a dip.

            Scott slid his hand out of Isaac’s grasp and gave him a reassuring smile. “Sure, what is it?” he asked as he reached for the lid. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled off the ceramic lid, and he froze.

            Inside was a tiny, black box, already opened, a golden ring nestled upright in the velvety holder.

            “It’s the rest of our lives,” Isaac told him softly, meeting his gaze when he looked up, eyes wide. A blush spread across Isaac’s cheeks as he said it. “That is, if you’ll have me…”

            “Always,” Scott said, crawling carefully over the meal to all but tackle Isaac in a hug. Isaac wrapped his arms around Scott, burying his nose in Scott’s shoulder as both their hearts raced happily. “Yes,  _ _always yes__ , Isaac.”


	71. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek/Cold Weather/private, small touches, small smiles

            The sky was a dark blanket above them, dotted with pinpricks of light and graced with a full, white moon. They were far enough from the city lights to see the pale, foggy strip down the center of the sky, the arms of the Milky Way galaxy extending off into endless space. It was not quite the same as being away at the lake Derek remembered visiting as a child, but it wasn’t lackluster either. He tucked his chin into his jacket and puffed warm breath into the fabric.

            Stiles paced silently at his side, shoulder gently bumping his every few steps, their fingers twined together. Stiles’ hand was freezing, but he had assured Derek multiple times that he didn’t mind, so Derek had stopped asking.

            “What’s it feel like?” Stiles lifted his head just long enough to breathe the words before he tucked it back under his scarf. Beacon Hills hadn’t seen cold this strong in years.

            Derek glanced over and then swept his gaze up to the full moon. He could feel the pull, certainly, feel it like an itch beneath his skin, like the echo of an alpha’s howl, but it wasn’t overwhelming. As deeply as the call of the shift went, the tether to his anchor went deeper, held stronger.

            The human at his side liked to say that he was the weakest of their group, just human he would say with distaste, but Derek knew better. The moon was ancient, the desire to shift powerful, but Stiles held Derek stronger than either.

            He smiled into the fabric of his coat, soft and private, because he knew the sort of face Stiles would make if he ever gave voice to such flowery thoughts. “Like when you’re out playing as a kid, and one of your parents calls you for dinner. You don’t want to go, but you don’t want to miss it, either.”

            “You could get all feral and go running amok,” Stiles said, muffled by his scarf. “You don’t have to stick to taking walks with me.”

            “I like walks with you,” Derek replied, tightening his grip a little on Stiles’ cold hand. He couldn’t tell if the red flush on Stiles’ cheeks was from cold or embarrassment, but either way, silence fell as they wandered aimlessly through the winter-dead forest.

            “I like walks with you, too,” Stiles said a while later, pointedly keeping his eyes trained on their path.

            But Derek had heard the heavy beat of his heart, caught the crinkle at the edges of his eyes that meant he was smiling, and he gave a little snort of laughter. Stiles just huffed and bumped gently into his shoulder as they continued on in companionable silence.


	72. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek, Christmas: Derek's birthday, misery, hopeful/happy ending

            Christmas was the worst time of the year for Derek. The stores started earlier every year, hauling out the decorations and ad campaigns even before Thanksgiving had passed. Last year, he’d seen a couple of stores with Christmas displays nestled snugly beside their Halloween displays, and he’d just put his hand basket of groceries on the ground and walked out.

            There had been a time Christmas was wonderful. There’d been a time when it meant his family - all of his family, even the more distant, out of state relatives - traveled to their home to visit. It had meant his mother would rope him and his siblings into helping her cook for the entire day before Christmas eve, because they had to make more than one turkey for a gathering of happy, hungry werewolves. It meant helping his dad sniff out the perfect tree and drag it back to the house, and decorate it as the last thing they did before bed that night.

            Once, it had meant his sisters teasing him about having a terrible birthday, and his mom scolding them both and reminding them it just meant the family brought more presents for Derek than either of them. It had meant staying up way past his bedtime to try and catch a glimpse of Santa claws as he left jewel-like, perfectly-wrapped presents beneath the glittering tree.

            Once, he’d been happy to see the displays going up, because it meant family.

            Now, there was no one left.

            Now, he sat cross-legged on his bed, a book open on his lap, and Not Christmas Music playing on the small radio alarm clock on nightstand. It didn’t matter, because he could hear the music at half a dozen other apartments in the building, but he did his best to grit his teeth and tune it out, which was how he missed the first, quiet knock on his door.

            “Derek?” came a voice through the heavy metal of the door.

            He pulled his gaze away from the book and to the door, a little confused. “It’s unlocked,” he said, because he never locked it; he could handle anything that couldn’t get past a lock.

            “I know,” Stiles said, voice muffled and tinny. “I was just- nevermind. Can I come in?”

            “Yeah,” Derek said, folding one side of the dust jacket into the book to keep his place before setting it aside and unfolding his legs to get off the bed. He couldn’t imagine what Stiles was doing there on Christmas eve, but whatever it was must be urgent to take him away from his father. “What’s wrong?”

            “Well, you’re-” Stiles began as he pulled the heavy door open and then closed again. “You’re sitting in the dark in your crappy empty loft, for starters.”

            Derek frowned. “If you’re going to insult-”

            “No, dude, look.” Stiles ran a hand through his hair, a motion which held much more of Derek’s attention ever since he’d started growing it out. “That’s not what I meant. Um, I just, I figured you shouldn’t be alone, sooo… I drove over.”

            “It’s fine,” Derek told him, sitting back down on the edge of the bed. His chest was weirdly tight at the thought of Stiles making the twenty minute drive just to say hi, just to give Derek company. “I don’t really do… Christmas.”

             “Because of your family,” Stiles blurted, though he seemed to realize the second it was out of his mouth that it wasn’t the right thing to say. “I’m sorry.”

            “It’s okay,” Derek said, and in a way, it was. “It’s been a long time.”

            Stiles shook his head, and moved a little closer, edging over until he could sit on the bed as well, though he left distance between them. He smelled like evergreen. “There’s never enough time,” he said quietly. “It always hurts. It always… it sucks, every holiday my mom’s not there for. But, like, being alone doesn’t make it better. It just means you got nothing good to fill the empty spaces with.”

            “I’ve got a lot of empty spaces,” Derek mumbled around the lump in his throat.

            For a moment, Stiles was quiet, and then he laid a hand on the bed between them, palm up. Derek looked over at it, and then up to Stiles, who smiled. “I can’t fill all those spaces up at once,” he said. “But, if you’ll come back with me, maybe we can make them just a little less hollow.”

            Derek hesitated, gaze flicking between Stiles’ eyes and his outstretched hand. He could barely breathe for how much he wanted to take Stiles up on the offer, to paint over the memories of Christmases spent huddled alone with Laura in shoddy motel rooms, neither of them willing to speak about everything that was missing, to paint over the memory of last Christmas, when he had no one at all, when he’d curled up and just gone to sleep to get through it.

            “Also, fair warning, my dad sort of baked you a birthday cake,” Stiles said.

            “Warning?” Derek echoed, not sure why he needed to be warned about sweet confections.

            “Well,” Stiles hedged, squinting a little and wincing. “He’s not really a  _ _baker__ , you know. So, I’m sorry in advance for that. But I promise it will be tasty.”

            Somehow, that joking assurance was what made the decision for Derek. Tentatively, he lifted his hand and slipped it into Stiles’ waiting hand. He twined their fingers and Stiles gave a little squeeze, and his smile caused something in Derek’s chest to loosen.

            For the first time in years, Derek thought maybe it would be okay not to be alone for his birthday.


	73. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek and ice storm

             “This is your fault somehow,” Stiles groaned, forehead pressed to the window of the loft. Outside, it was darker than most nights, the world slicked down with rain that froze as soon as it touched any surface. He could see icicles forming on the underside of his Jeep even from the top floor.

             “Actually, I’m pretty sure it’s your fault,” Derek said, without bothering to look up from his book. He paused, giving his book a thoughtful look. “Or Scott. Aren’t you two supposed to be the  _ _beacons__  around these parts?”

             Stiles shot him a scathing look. “I don’t think that’s how it works,” Stiles told him. “It..” He stumbled over the words still, though even being able to talk about it was a vast improvement over the condition he’d been in when Derek finally came home. “We don’t call  _ _bad weather__.”

             That was enough to take Derek’s attention from his book, because Stiles was right. Though Beacon Hills had never seen an ice storm this ferocious, the dark trio didn’t call bad weather. “But you do call the supernatural,” he said softly.

             Eyes wide, Stiles turned back to looking outside with a whole new view of the storm. “You think there’s a creature that could cause  _ _all this__?” he murmured, breath feathering fog over the glass.

             “I don’t know,” Derek said, setting aside his book.

             Derek clambered to his feet and Stiles knew it was because he could hear his racing heartbeat. Stiles could feel the light-headed feeling creeping in, the way the world got a little dizzy and disjointed as he rapidly tried to piece together anything he knew. His mind began to spin out, but Derek’s arms were around him before he could crash, and everything slowed down the moment he grabbed onto the front of Derek’s shirt.

             “Sorry,” he whispered, but Derek didn’t try to tell him it was okay or that it would get better or to calm down. He just kissed the top of his head and let him cling.

             “We’ll call Scott in the morning,” Derek said quietly a few moments later. “Figure this out together. Let’s just get some sleep for now.”

             “Okay,” Stiles agreed, and he let Derek lead him away from the window, away from the storm.


	74. Stilinski Family Feels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen, the Stilinskis, decorating a christmas tree. Three words: Star, candles and dinosaurs.

            The first year after her death, they hadn’t put up a tree. It was too much to hold a family gathering when it was just the two of them, and so - though neither of them had said a word about it - they had left the corner of the living room bare. The decorations stayed in the garage, in Rubbermaid containers, and Christmas came and went like any other day.

            The second year, Stiles had sneaked into the garage and opened the containers, just to look inside, because he missed her, because he needed to touch the things she had loved so much. He ran fingers over the evergreen and holiday cheer and peppermint candles that always made the house smell so amazing, and he let the wounds of her absence bleed raw and fresh inside him until it was just a dull ache. Though he left the rest, he took one of the dark green candles up to his room, and lit it only when his father wasn’t home.

            The second year, Stiles came home from school to start his Christmas break to find decorations all over the house. There were candles exactly where she used to put them, glowing figurines in the windows, and Santas set up along the mantel. Stiles had wandered through the house, touching every single reindeer, every single snowflake, every single figure in the little stable scene on the coffee table, even the baby Jesus in a straw cradle his mom had always told him not to touch. His dad didn’t say a word about it, and it was all packed away by new year’s eve.

            The third year, Stiles dragged a sapling tree from the preserve home on his bike, and he set it up in the corner. His dad didn’t ask where it came from - probably because he didn’t want to have to arrest or fine his son - but he did place three ornaments on it when Stiles went to bed that night; a paper cut-out of a deputy sheriff’s badge Stiles had made in third grade, a t-rex in a Santa hat Stiles had insisted on taking home when he was seven, and a little dove’s nest ornament with a tiny dove decorated in real bird feathers.

            The fourth year, Stiles decorated the house because his father was working longer hours at work after being promoted. He did his best to put everything where it belonged, and when his father came home two days before Christmas with a small actual tree, Stiles didn’t badger him to decorate it, he just put the same three ornaments on and went to bed. He left two presents under it the next night, and there were two for him when he woke.

            The fifth year, Stiles finally has the courage to ask where mom put the stockings, and his dad fetches them from the closet, along with something Stiles hadn’t seen in years; the tree star. He runs a reverent finger over it and he doesn’t have to ask if they can put it on this year. His dad just hands it over to him, and he’s tall enough to put it on by himself, though he still remembers his mother lifting him up and telling him to be very careful, because the tree star was _ _the__ _ _most important__ _ _part__.

            “I miss her,” Stiles says that year.

            His dad motions to all of the decorations filling the house, and the ornaments on the now fully decorated tree, and the stockings hanging off the edge of the mantle. “She’s here,” his dad tells him softly. “If we let her be, she’s here.”


	75. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek/Stiles - woolen mittens - smooth, crisp, thud

            Stiles took a deep breath of the crisp winter air, closing his eyes as he glided over the smooth, iced surface of the outdoor rink. Beacon Hills had been experiencing extreme cold due to a new and somewhat unfortunate visitor the packs were busy trying to handle. Scott was off with Allison and he had told Stiles there was nothing he could do until the next day at least, so Stiles had managed to coax Derek out to the make-shift ice rink the town had cobbled together.

            Derek was not convinced that the area was date location material. He was still standing near the gate of the rink, clinging with both mittened hands to the metal bars that cordoned off the rink from the rest of the field. Stiles had considered trying to rescue him, but it was too adorable watching him wobble around on the ice skates, trying to stay upright.

            Taking mercy, he skated over to Derek side, turning as he reached the gateway, and laying a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “You know, the worst that can happen is you fall down,” he assured the wolf.

            Derek shot him a scathing glare, but he let go of the fence, teetering precariously for a moment while he straightened. Stiles bravely held out a hand and Derek grabbed hold of it, managing not to topple them both somehow. “I feel like an idiot,” he spat, like an accusation.

            However, Stiles could hear the worry behind it, knew the big-bad alpha was desperately afraid of not looking tough enough around all the humans criss-crossing the small rink. “You’re doing fine,” Stiles assured him, wishing he’d thought to wear gloves instead of the heavy, woolen mittens his father had gotten them both for Christmas. Then he would be able to thread his fingers through Derek’s, keep him focused. “It’s easy, just put one foot in front of the other, and slide like this.”

            He demonstrated slowly for Derek, letting go of his hand for just a moment to skate in a straight line, and then he was back, facing him and holding out both hands like he would to a small child. Derek searched his eyes for a moment, his smile, and then reached out and took Stiles’ hands, let him pull him forward as Stiles skated back. He wobbled some, feet splaying out a little and then coming back in almost too close, but Stiles never let go of his hands, just continued pulling him forward until Derek began to move his feet on his own, until the pull began to lessen.

            They made a slow, careful lap around the rink together like that, Stiles watching Derek’s feet, his hands under Derek’s just in case. When he was sure Derek had the hang of it, Stiles slipped his hands away and moved to the side to let Derek drift past him. He had just enough time to see Derek’s eyes widen as he realized he was on his own.

            “Hey, it’s… it’s not so bad,” he told Stiles.

            “I told you, it’s easy,” Stiles chuckled from where he stood by the fence.

            Slowly, Derek managed to turn himself around and come skating for Stiles. It wasn’t until he was nearly there that he realized… he had no idea how to stop.


	76. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek: baby's first christmas

            “Are you going to hold her the entire time?” his father asked him, a sly smile on his face.

            Stiles looked up from his position at the foot of the decorated Christmas tree. He glanced to Derek as if you ask can you believe this joke? Derek just held up both hands, indicating he was staying out of it. So Stiles turned, shifting the newborn in his arms a little in order to get a good glare in at his dad, though there was no heat in it.

            “I’m going to hold her for the rest of my life,” he said matter-of-factly. “If you want to hold her, you will have to pry her from my cold, dead-”

            “Stiles,” Derek said warningly from across the room, though he was smiling as well. “I think you can let your dad hold her for a few minutes. Make yourself a plate of food and come sit.”

            Reluctantly, Stiles scooted across the floor and managed to get the baby traded into his father’s gentle arms. She cooed, opening foggy blue eyes to peer up at the new person holding her. When he put his pinky finger within reach, she grasped onto it with five little fingers and pulled it to her mouth to drool on him. Stiles smiled, heart fluttering at the sight of his dad and his baby.

            “I think she likes you,” Stiles said quietly.

            His dad smiled. “The feeling’s mutual,” he murmured. “Been a long time since I held such a tiny creature. You were a lot bigger.”

            Stiles rolled his eyes with a scoff. “Nice, dad.”

            His dad grinned, and wiggled his finger in her grasp. She held tighter, burbling happily. “She’s a lot cuter, too,” his dad told him, chuckled at the offended squawk Stiles gave.

            Stiles rounded on Derek and motioned to his traitor father and child. “Are you just going to stand for this?”

            “She is a lot cuter than you,” Derek said, wrinkling his nose and bursting into a brilliant smile when Stiles gaped at him in mock offense.

            “Oh my god,” Stiles groaned. “I can’t believe you’re siding with him.”

            "It’s my birthday, I can do whatever I want,” Derek shot back, smirking when Stiles sighed the sigh of the defeated.

            “It is,” Stiles said, slipping over and plopping down on the couch beside him. “And you can.” When Derek raised one arm, Stiles leaned into his side, eyes still trained on his father and the baby.

            Derek kissed the top of his head, lowering his arm to pull Stiles a little closer until they were both comfortable. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

            “Merry Christmas,” Stiles murmured back.


	77. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek, Marshmallows, fire, blanket annnnnnd hair

            “There, just the way you like it,” Derek said, passing the steaming mug of cocoa over the back of the couch and into Stiles’ comical grabby-hands. The noise of pleasure he made as he wrapped cold fingers around it was completely worth it to Derek.

            As he skirted around the end of the couch, he watched Stiles counting the mini marshmallows, but he knew there were the perfect number. “Seventeen!” Stiles declared, giving a sly sidelong glance to Derek. “You’ve been talking to my father.”

            Derek shrugged noncommittally and knelt beside the fireplace. It wasn’t a real fireplace, not one that burned wood and sent smoke spiraling up a chimney, but the gas-fed fire was real enough to give him just a moment of pause. Behind him, he could hear Stiles’ heartbeat pick up a little as he watched, still nervous for Derek any time they did this. But Derek just reached into the hollow in the wall, to the side of the fire, and turned the knob that brightened the flames, letting them leap a little higher, a little warmer.

            “Stop giving me that look,” Derek said before he turned around, catching Stiles in between looks. “I’m not going to fall apart any time there’s fire, Stiles.”

            “I know,” Stiles said softly, peeling back the thick fleece blanket covering his legs, a clear invitation. “But I know you’re not 100% okay with it, either.”

            “I’m not 100% okay with anything,” Derek said as he accepted the invitation, snuggling down into the bracket of Stiles’ legs, keeping his own mug of cocoa level as Stiles tucked the blanket in around them both. The beat of Stiles’ heart was so loud this close, and he took just a moment to close his eyes and lean his head back against Stiles’ chest to listen to it.

            A soft murmur of laughter preceded the feel of Stiles’ long fingers threading through his hair. Warmth coursed through him as it always did when they relaxed like this, when Stiles took over keeping vigil and let him let go. When he stroked soothing patterns through Derek’s hair, or over his skin late at night, Derek finally felt like he could take a breath, like he could believe everything really was turning out all right.

            “So you’re not 100% okay with this?” Stiles asked cheekily, not stopping his ministrations. Derek meant for the noise that rumbled up from his chest to be a growl, but he suspected it sounded much more like a purr.

            At the moment, he just couldn’t bring himself to care.


	78. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Hallucinations and descriptions of a panic attack
> 
> Sterek: synchronized heartbeats. (Optional: Derek helps Stiles through a panic attack. )

            He was sitting on the couch with his laptop in his lap, the sound of the shower running in the bathroom a comforting background noise to chase away the silence. Since Derek had returned, Stiles had been spending more time hiding out at his new apartment in an attempt to keep his father or Scott from worrying. His father had been in his business more than ever since finding out about the supernatural and Scott had enough on his plate trying to hold everyone together in the aftermath of the alpha pack and the darach. They still hung out, but Stiles ensured that it was on his good days only, the days when Stiles had it together enough to be helpful rather than another burden.

            Tonight was a good night, good enough anyway, but Scott was out with Allison and Isaac and Derek had managed to send a text asking if he wanted to come over for dinner. The apartment still smelled like pasta and garlic bread.

            After a while the shower wound down and silence rushed in again. Stiles closed his eyes and counted, three, four, five until the curtain whisked aside and he could hear the sound of Derek dressing at the bathroom sink. He never left the bathroom in a towel. It was a shame, really, but Stiles wasn’t about to call him on it. There were more than enough problems for both of them without adding each other to the list.

            He didn’t hear the door open, and maybe that should have been his first clue, but it just wasn’t. This place was supposed to be safe.

            So when Derek rounded the corner, soft black sweatpants clinging to his hips, his silvery-grey shirt damp with steam, Stiles didn’t think twice about it. He glanced up long enough to see Derek lean against the corner leading out of the hall before he turned his attention back to his screen.

            “You are so useless.”

            Dragging his eyes back up, brow furrowing, Stiles fixed Derek with a confused look. “What?” he asked, the word scratching out of his throat.

            “Useless,” Derek repeated, as if to someone too slow to comprehend. He shook his head. “I don’t know why I let you keep hiding here. Too scared to go home to your dad. Lying to your best friend about how bad it is.”

            “Derek-” Stiles started, chest tight. He couldn’t wrap his head around what he’d possibly done to prompt this.

            “Just a human,” Derek continued, right over the top of Stiles’ protest. “Soft, no healing, no powers. It’s a wonder you’ve survived this long. You know we don’t need your help.”

            He could feel his heart beating faster but he couldn’t get out any words. They needed him, he told himself desperately. They needed him, they asked for his help. “No,” he rasped, fingers tight on the edge of the laptop.

            “No one does,” Derek said, with a little sneer that set Stiles’ world on edge, dizziness swirling up inside of him. “You’re so damaged. Too broken. That darkness you’re fighting, you’re not going to beat it, like Scott or Allison. You’re too weak.”

            Stiles gasped in a breath, shoving the laptop off his thighs, not registering the crack of it against the ground as he stood. “That’s not true,” he protested, but it sounded as weak as Derek told him he was. “That’s not-”

            “Stiles!”

            It was Derek’s voice, but it wasn’t Derek, not the Derek standing in the hallway, except that he wasn’t in the hallway, he was poking his head out of the bathroom, dark hair sticking up at ridiculous angles and for a moment Stiles couldn’t breathe at all. His knees wobbled and when Derek took a step out of the bathroom toward him, he shot toward the door.

            Derek was faster, getting between him and the exit, calling his name through the pounding of his heart, past the ringing in his ears. He reached out, needing to know that Derek was real, that this was the real Derek, and his fingers met damp cloth and solid muscle and skin. His next breath was nearly a sob as Derek caught hold of him in return, keeping him from barking his knees on the hardwood floors when he dropped.

            “Stiles,” Derek said softly. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

            Distantly Stiles could hear him murmuring, could feel him under his hands, but he couldn’t calm down and he knew that feeling, and that only made it worse, made it spiral, made the attack cling to him and sink in claws and-

            And then Derek pulled him in, curling up around him until there was only the feel of Derek, the scent of him from the shower all around Stiles, the sound of his heart beating strong in Stiles’ ears, over the top of his own. Slowly, slowly, Stiles felt his heartbeat stutter, faltering into a rhythm to match Derek’s, drawing in breath at the same time, letting it out together.

            “I’m okay,” he whispered after a few long moments, but he didn’t try to move his head from resting on Derek's chest.

            “What happened?” Derek asked, voice all broken edges and worry.

            “Nothing,” Stiles said, almost immediately following it with “Hallucination” as if compelled. He found he didn’t want to keep them from Derek, too. Someone had to know; they were getting worse, more realistic. Stiles had been able to tell before tonight. “I had- it was just-”

            “A panic attack,” Derek finished for him, limbs going slack around Stiles so they could sit more comfortably where they had dropped to the floor.

            “Yeah,” Stiles admitted, throat closing up around the word. He’d been doing so well. “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be,” Derek told him softly, nudging his forehead against Stiles’ temple. “There’s nothing to apologize for. What do you need?”

            “This,” Stiles said, barely a breath, and Derek nodded against him.

            “Okay. Whatever you need, Stiles.” Derek pressed a kiss into his hair and Stiles felt himself relaxing even though his stomach fluttered at the unfamiliar gesture. “Whatever it is, we’ll work through it. Just don’t… don’t leave.”

            “Why?” Stiles whispered.

            “Because,” Derek told him, a sigh of surrender escaping. “Because I need you, Stiles. I can’t do this without you. I came back for you. Just you.”

            Stiles closed his eyes, leaning his weight against Derek as relief flooded through him. “Okay,” he breathed out, listening to Derek’s heartbeat, strong and steady. “We can do this.”

            “We can do this,” Derek agreed, resting his chin on the top of Stiles’ head.


	79. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sterek: nightmares before marriage.

            The low keen was what woke Derek, finally. The little alarm clock next to their bed read 2:13am which meant Stiles had fallen asleep hours ago. Derek could put up with the little motions, the thrashing and the cold feet stuck against the backs of his knees in the middle of the night. Those were normal, familiar, and easily ignored most nights. The soft noise of distress was different.

            “Stiles,” Derek said softly, pressing his palm to the smooth skin of Stiles’ belly. At the hiss of pain, Derek withdrew his hand and called louder: “Stiles!”

            With a start, Stiles jerked awake, half sitting up before Derek could put an arm over his chest and pull him close. “What?” Stiles asked blearily, looking around their room as if they were being invaded. His heartbeat was thrumming loud in Derek’s ears. “What is it?”

            “You tell me,” Derek said quietly, nuzzling into Stiles’ shoulder. “You were crying.”

            “I wasn’t,” Stiles argued without even a pause. Derek kept his mouth shut until Stiles realized that there were tears drying on his cheeks and that, in fact, he had been crying. “Oh.”

            “Nightmares?” Derek asked as Stiles settled back into him. “Again?”

            “I don’t know.” Stiles closed his eyes, following the tendons of Derek’s hands until their fingers twined. “I don’t remember… I don’t feel good.”

            “Sick or bad?” Derek asked, ready to get up and move Stiles if needed.

            “Bad,” Stiles assured him. “I think I’m just nervous. Really… really nervous. I don’t know if I can do this, Derek.”

            “Do what?” Derek said. “The wedding?”

            The small noise of distress was confirmation enough, but Stiles added: “Look at our lives, Derek. Forever? That’s a really…. that’s- can we even make that promise?” His grip tightened on Derek’s hand.

            “Yes,” Derek told him, no hesitation. He gave a small, breathy chuckle and pressed a kiss to the back of Stiles’ neck. He felt Stiles relax the tiniest bit, his heartbeat evening out some. “That’s sort of the point, Stiles.”

            “You’re not nervous?” Stiles prompted. “What if I run away?”

            “I can outrun you,” Derek told him.

            “What if someone objects?” Stiles asked.

            Derek managed not to roll his body when he rolled his eyes, in the hopes that Stiles couldn’t tell. “Then I’ll eat them.”

            “Oh my god,” Stiles breathed, but there was laughter in his tone now. “You would eat a wedding guest for me?”

            With a soft, exasperated sigh, Derek pressed his nose to Stiles’ neck. “I would do anything for you, Stiles.”

            Finally, finally, Stiles relaxed in his arms. “I know,” he said softly. “Derek?”

            “Yeah?”

            “We’ll be okay, won’t we?” It was so gentle, so worried, that Derek pulled him flush up against himself and hooked his chin over Stiles’ shoulder to make sure he could hear.

            “We’ll be better than okay,” he said. “We’ll be great.”


	80. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek/Christmas, with Stilinski Family Traditions. Bonus points for Papa Stilinski being involved in some way.

            “It’s a tradition,” Stiles had said at the loft. He’d started putting candles in the huge window, one by one, and Derek had put them out behind him with his fingers. There was a lot Derek was willing to put up with from Stiles, but fire in the house was not part of it.

            “Good. It can be a tradition somewhere else,” he’d countered, snuffing out the last one and ignoring Stiles’ huff. “Somewhere  _away from me_.”

            “Do you even have any traditions?” Stiles had asked, dipping the lighter into the candle Derek had just killed. He’d motioned all around them with one hand while skirting around Derek to relight the rest of the dead candles. “Look at this place. No holiday decorations at all. Aren’t there, like, werewolf holidays?”

            “Yes,” Derek had told him. “We have a lot of traditions, too.”

            The grin that lit Stiles’ face had spelled trouble, but before Derek had been able to retract the statement, Stiles said: “If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

            Which was how Derek ended up sitting at the Stilinski’s dinner table across from the sheriff, sitting beside Stiles. After Stiles had explained Derek would be alone for the holiday and that he needed a demonstration of  _traditions_ because  _running around naked in the woods_  was not a  _holiday_ , the Sheriff had agreed to let him stay. They had ganged up on him when he offered to help in the kitchen, chasing him out and toward the TV, where Stiles had joined him a few moments later.

            Together, they watched a stop-motion animation movie Derek had never seen about Rudolph and  _misfits_ , during which Stiles kept shooting him significant looks. When Derek asked why they weren’t allowed in the kitchen, Stiles explained that holidays like Christmas were the only days his dad got to make whatever he wanted and Stiles wouldn’t nag him to eat better.

            As it turned out, there were plenty of good reasons for them to be banned from the kitchen, and Derek was enjoying every bite of them. “This is all amazing,” he said quietly between bites.

            The sheriff’s smile was warm. “Claudia used to make most of these for us,” he explained. “Every year she would ask for a list of what we wanted to eat at Christmas.”

            “We got to pick three things each,” Stiles added. “Dad always picked ham and ambrosia.”

            “The… marshmallowy-fruit stuff?” Derek asked, pointing with his fork. “You have good taste, sir.”

            Stiles rolled his eyes, but the sheriff thanked him by saying: “Stiles always picked cheesy potatoes, at least.”

            “The crushed potato chips on top… that’s a good idea. My-” Derek hesitated, then cleared his throat. “My mom used to make them, too, but in a crock pot.”

            “Oh,” Stiles said softly. “We should have asked if there was anything you wanted us to make.”

            “Isn’t the point to see yours?” Derek asked, smiling at Stiles the same way Stiles had smiled at him in the loft days before. “Traditions, that is.”

            Rolling his eyes, Stiles let out a puff of laughter. “As long as I get to see yours after,” he replied. “Your traditions, of course.”

            Derek was the only one who caught the sheriff’s almost-breathless sigh.


	81. Isaac x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stisaac, scarves, making cookies.

            Stiles rinsed his hands just as the timer buzzed to alert them the next batch of cookies were done. He grabbed oven mitts, pulling out the pan and juggling it with the last pan of uncooked chocolate chip cookies. After he had set the hot cookie sheet on the stove top, he reset the timer and shook his hands out of the mitts.

            He glanced over to Isaac, who was sitting on the far end of the counter, a half-eaten, warm cookie in each hand. He had gotten there half an hour ago but he was still wearing his coat and the grey and blue scarf Stiles had given him for Christmas early. At least he had taken off his shoes at the door.

            “You know, you could take your coat off, stay awhile,” Stiles pointed out, tapping the fluffy tops of the piping hot cookies with the pad of his finger. “Maybe even actually  _help,_ ” he suggested.

            “I am helping,” he said, holding up one of the cardamom cookies. “Someone has to make sure they aren’t poison.”

            “What a sacrifice,” Stiles said dryly, smiling. “How are they? This is the first time I’ve made those ones.”

            “They’re good,” Isaac said, nodding and turning the little cookie over in his palm. “I don’t normally like cinnamon, but they’re good. Where’d you get the recipe?”

            Stiles hesitated, glancing over before dropping his gaze. “Uh, I was going through some stuff in the basement, looking for Christmas decorations, and… I found a box of recipes from my mom.”

            Isaac’s eyes widened a little. “Oh,” he said softly, then motioned to all the other cookies. “Are all of these…?”

            Lifting a spatula, Stiles began shifting the cookies onto the cooling rack. “Most of them,” he said. “The cardamom ones, the ones with kisses, the peanut butter chip ones, and the lemon ones.”

            Isaac wrinkled his nose. “Lemon cookies?”

            “We’re making those next,” Stiles told him.

            “I can save you the trouble,” Isaac said. “They’re poison, and we should make more peanut butter kisses ones instead.”

            “I’m going to bake you a special batch of wolfsbane ones if you keep stealing them,” Stiles said, whacking at Isaac’s hand with the spatula as he leaned over to grab another. They made faces at each other and then Stiles turned back to the task, grabbing the next card from the stack of recipes.

            “You’re going to run out of space to put all these cookies,” Isaac said, lifting a cookie from the cooling rack when Stiles’ back was turned.

            “I saw that,” Stiles said, though he made no move to even look away from the recipe. “And there will be plenty of room when you get your cute little ass off my counter top.”

            Isaac snorted and took a bite of the cookie. “My cute little ass is right where it belongs.”

            “In my way?” Stiles quipped as he measured flour into the last clean mixing bowl.

            “With all the rest of the delicious sweets,” Isaac said nonchalantly, then he grinned when Stiles rolled his eyes.

            “That was really bad,” Stiles informed him, but he was grinning too.


	82. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek/Christmas, long time no see, sparks, first kiss.

            The knock on the door was early, by almost an hour, catching him off guard. He called for his father to come in, but there was no response. No open door, no  _it doesn’t smell like burning in here am I in the right place?_  Exasperated, Stiles rinsed his hands of the dough sticking to them, and grabbed a dish towel to dry them as he walked to the front door.

            “I said come-” He froze, drawing up short, eyes widening. He let out a shaky breath. “I thought you were dead.”

            A vague, nervous smile twitched at the corner of Derek’s lips. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know it’s been a while, and I won’t stay long, I just-”

            “You just what? You’re just going to leave again?” Stiles snapped. The only thing keeping him from slamming the door in Derek’s face was everything they’d been through before he walked out of town. The summer at the loft, the fall spent trying to pretend nothing happened in front of their friends. The alphas and the darach, the Nemeton and the nightmares that chased on the heels of their sacrifice. The darkness that had come for them all afterward.

            “I’m sorry, Stiles,” Derek repeated.

            “You’re  _sorry?_ ” Stiles echoed incredulously. He closed his eyes, taking a slow breath and letting it out. “It’s been  _four years_ ,” he said. “You  _walked away from us._  From me. You show up four  _years_  later on  _Christmas_  and expect  _sorry_  is going to be enough?  _Sorry_  doesn’t come close to cutting it, not this time.”

            He started to close the door, but Derek stopped it with one hand. “You’re right,” Derek said as Stiles started to just walk away, leaving him at the door. “It doesn’t fix anything. I just… wanted you to know I was in town. So you weren’t surprised.”

            “Because showing up at my apartment on Christmas unannounced isn’t a surprise at all,” Stiles shot back as he headed for the kitchen. He knew Derek would follow him;  _that_  at least wasn’t a surprise. He snatched up the bowl of cookie dough and began angrily doling out dollops onto the greased cookie sheet.

            “I didn’t want you to think I was avoiding you,” Derek said quietly from the doorway, watching his every move.

            A bark of laughter escaped Stiles. “Like the last four years didn’t give me that impression? Seeing you randomly wandering the supermarket would surely do the trick. Good thing we avoided that.”

            “Stiles,” Derek said patiently. Stiles lopped another glob of dough on the cookie sheet and then growled, rounding on Derek.

            “What.”

            “I didn’t want to hurt you,” Derek told him.

            “Well, it’s too fucking late for that,” Stiles snarled. He stopped, took another deep, slow breath, and shook his head. “What are you doing back?”

            As if he’d been expecting Stiles to cave, Derek nodded. “The county called about the preserve property. It’s coming out of the system and I can reclaim it, but I had to come back for paperwork.”

            “And then?” Stiles asked.

            “And then?” Derek echoed.

            “And then what, Derek?” Stiles demanded. “You sign the paperwork, you get your family’s home back… and then what? Are you going to stick around or just take off again?”

            Silence fell between them, and Stiles fidgeted, rubbing the sticky cookie dough between his fingers as he tried to determine what was going through Derek’s mind. Finally Derek sighed and dropped his gaze to the floor. “Do you want me to stay?”

            Stiles let out a soft huff of surrender and met Derek’s eyes when he looked back up. “I never wanted you to leave in the first place.”

            “I was trying to keep everyone safe,” Derek reminded him gently.

            “And now?” Stiles asked

            “I took care of the problems.” Derek pushed away from the doorway, stepping deliberately toward Stiles, who made no move to get away. Slowly, he raised his hands, laying them on either side of Stiles’ face, and the ghost of a smile flickered onto his features. “I missed you, every minute.”

            Stiles’ eyes slid closed and he tipped his head, pressing into the warmth of Derek’s palm for just a heartbeat. “You should stay for dinner.”

            “Just dinner?” Derek asked. Stiles’ huffed a warm breath of laughter against his palm.

            “Gotta start somewhere,” Stiles told him. He opened his eyes, met Derek’s, and gave a tentative smile. “Christmas dinner seems like as good a starting point as any.”

            Derek leaned forward just a little, just enough to rest his forehead against Stiles’. “Can you promise me your father won’t shoot me on sight?”

            “No,” Stiles said, smile turning genuine. He had missed Derek, desperately, though he had never admitted it. The feeling flared through him, enough to take his breath away momentarily. “Will you stay anyway?”

            “Yes,” Derek murmured the instant before Stiles pressed forward and kissed him.


	83. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek, Christmas: pack, opening presents, snuggles.

            Stiles was always awake before him. Sometimes it was by design, when the last few days of senior year chimed an ungodly morning of the hour from his phone. Sometimes it was by chance, his body unable to keep still long enough for all eight hours science supposedly said he needed. Either way, it was always Stiles who opened his eyes first.

            The time was well spent, of course. He would roll over so carefully that Derek rarely ever woke, and he would spend minutes just tracing every line of Derek’s face with his eyes, etching it into his mind. He wasn’t an artist by any means, but he thought sometimes he could recreate the picture before him from memory. At some point, Derek’s pale, pale eyes would open and when Stiles finally traced back up to them, he would smile.

            This morning was like any other they could steal. Golden light suffused the room, lighting up particles of dust and turning them into sparkles. Outside it was quiet, and he could see a little bit of frost around the edges of the window. It wasn’t exactly a  _white christmas_ , but then again, it never really was. The best he’d seen in years and years was a little bit of frost on the ground or a light dusting of snow in the early morning. Still, it was cold enough to bunch the covers up around his chin and snuggle into Derek’s supernatural warmth. It didn’t surprise him when Derek lifted an arm and let him arrange himself as close as humanly possible.

            “Good morning,” Stiles murmured, scooting close enough to rest his forehead lightly against Derek’s.

            Derek grumbled something unintelligible and closed his eyes again, arm tightening around Stiles just for a moment. It was as close to verbal as he got upon waking up like this. Stiles never minded; there were many ways to communicate that didn’t involve words, and Derek was amazing at at least half of them.

            They lay like that for a while, so close even Stiles could hear both of their hearts. He closed his eyes and let the haze of sleep creep back in for a little, warm and pleasant, but after a while he felt Derek smoothing hands down his bare back. He arched into the touch like a cat, turning the motion into a full body stretch and yawn. Derek smiled, and tipped him over partway through.

            “Rude,” Stiles informed him, but he was grinning too much to be taken seriously as Derek draped himself over Stiles’ chest.

            “We need to get up,” Derek reminded him quietly.

            “Oh, I’m  _up_ ,” Stiles quipped, grin widening.

            Derek rolled his eyes, but didn’t bother responding to the joke. “Your dad’s expecting us over at ten and it’s….” He leaned so that he could see the alarm clock on the nightstand. “Ten after nine.”

            “Plenty of time,” Stiles said, squirming a little, though not to escape.

            Derek gave a little growl, still smiling, and rolled out of bed. Stiles caught the jeans tossed at his head, and stuck out his tongue, but he followed suit. They managed to get themselves dressed between kisses, between stolen touches and knowing smiles. Stiles was surprised they ever made it out of the room some days. Just before Stiles got to the door, Derek snagged his sleeve, drawing him back in.

            “Before we go… I got you something,” he said.

            Stiles’ brow furrowed. “We’re doing presents at my dad’s, right? And with the others, tonight.”

            “I know,” Derek said. “We are, I know. But this is- just, hang on.”

            He disappeared into the closet and a moment later reappeared, a small box in his hands. Taking a deep breath, he pressed it into Stiles’ hands, but he didn’t release it until Stiles looked at him.

            “I wanted you to open this here,” he said softly. “It’s…  _important_.”

            Stiles’ heartbeat picked up, thrumming beneath his skin with sudden anxiety. He couldn’t imagine anything so  _important_  he couldn’t open it in front of his dad, or the rest of the pack. Slowly, he slipped off the golden bow, peeling off the bright red wrapping paper, and looked at the little green box. It glittered slightly in the morning light. He glanced up to Derek, and then gently pried off the lid.

            Inside lay two slips of paper.

            Plane tickets.

            His gaze shot up, meeting Derek’s, heart skipping a beat.

            “You said you wanted to go,” Derek told him. “So I thought, when school lets out, we could go together.”

            “I can’t believe you remember this,” Stiles breathed, trying not to grip the box too tightly.

            “Is that a yes?” Derek asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

            Stiles smiled. “Yeah, that’s a yes, asshole. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather go with than you.”

            Derek practically sagged with relief and drew Stiles into a hug. Stiles relaxed into it, burying his nose in the crook of Derek’s neck so that he felt the rumble of Derek’s voice when he spoke. “Merry Christmas, Stiles.”


	84. Coach x Greenberg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mute!Greenberg for Greenbergsays. Greenstock, peppermint, bickering in school.

            Finals week. That blissful, quiet week at the end of the semester, leading into two blissful weeks away from snotty teenagers who seemed to want to remain ignorant of economics despite his best efforts otherwise. It was a week where they all sat silently at their desks, taking tests or studying for taking tests and they were so close to their own freedom that they could almost taste it. So close that no one caused any trouble, no one mouthed off to him.

            Well, almost no one, he thought, pointedly ignoring the flicker of motion in the back corner of the room.

            She sat alone, the desks to the side of her vacant by her own design.There were still ten minutes until the end of class and for the last six she’d been trying to get his attention. Finstock had been pointedly staring at his desk, but there weren’t any distractions and he finally made the mistake of glancing up to see her.

 _ _Peppermint__  her clever fingers said before he could look away.

            He scowled, and looked back down to his desk, but curiosity got the better of him. He glanced back up, and Greenberg was smirking, her hands poised as if she just knew he would look back up to him. He rolled his eyes, but he watched her speak silently, the only way she ever had, the only way she could. Herr hands flickered delicately in the air, mesmerizing.

 _ _I love… hot chocolate,__  she signed.  _ _Peppermint hot chocolate.__

            It seemed like an innocuous statement- annoying, but innocuous. He knew better. She did this all the time during class, and he knew what the next few signs would mean.

__We should buy some hot chocolate after school._ _

            Always with the invitations. he sighed inwardly. He couldn’t, of course, if for no other reason than because she was a student. Still, she always asked. She had found his phone number sometime in the middle of her freshman year and - despite that she couldn’t speak on the phone - she had sent him roughly eight million texts he had to keep deleting. Offers to get ice cream on hot summer days, invitations to movies and sports games and walks in the park.

            She had only gotten bolder with every passing year. She was a senior now, with only a semester left, and she was asking him outright with every motion of her hands, every sign she formed, right in front of the other students now.

            He shook his head no and pointedly looked away.

            It was a matter of heartbeats later that he looked back.

 _ _I know you like hot chocolate,__  she signed.  _ _I have watched you drink hot chocolate.__

            Again, he shook his head and her fingers were forming the word yes before he stopped. He stifled a groan, but he didn’t stop watching as she spoke.

__There is a nice coffee shop outside of town. Best hot chocolate in the world._ _

            Outside of town, she was still a seventeen year old student. Outside of town she still didn’t turn eighteen until mid-April. He shook his head again, and as always, her signs made him think maybe she was reading his mind.

 _ _It is just hot chocolate__. She smiled.

            She said it so easily, almost like it was true, and he was just annoyed enough to give in, to discretely sign back.  _ _It is never ** **just****  anything.__

            Her eyebrows rose at that, and he sighed, knowing he’d given himself away. She knew that he understood many of her signs, but this was the first time he’d shown her that he knew how to sign back. She smiled, and he knew the gig was up. Quickly she shuffled together her test papers and slipped to the front of the room to place them neatly on his desk. While her back was to the room of students, so that no one else could possibly see, she signed one last time.

__See you after school._ _

 

* * *

 

 

            She sat at one of the little tables in the corner of the room, a mostly empty paper cup of cocoa clasped in her hands. The clock on the wall made a frown out of the time with its hands and her watch concurred that Coach was late. Of course he had to stay after school, but she knew there wasn’t practice today so  _after_  was only relative to what it took to clean up and leave after the bell.

            As if on cue, the bell on the door chimed to announce a new patron, and Greenberg turned to see. It was just some girl, shaking snow out of her hair and looking harassed by the unusually cold weather they’d been having the past week. It never got this cold, and it had been years since they’d seen enough snow to accumulate, so Greenberg knew the feeling.

            There was no way the girl could know about the wendigo the wolf club had found roaming the preserve two days ago, or how the weather would calm back down once it was driven out or killed. Greenberg knew, but only because McCall and Stilinski sat in front of her in American Lit and in three years neither of them had learned the meaning of the word  _whisper_.

            Sighing, she glanced to the clock again and tapped her cup on the table a couple of times, pushing down her disappointment.

            This was  _normal_ , she told herself.

            This was only exactly what she expected.

            He couldn’t just come out for a drink with her, not alone, not until she was eighteen, and some bitter part of her knew that. Someone might see. Someone might say something. It might get back to someone who cared.

            She didn’t know how to tell him that there  _was_  no one to care. Her parents had been taken from her in the same crash that had rendered her mute as a child and though she was grateful to her godparents for taking in a mute, grief-stricken 10-year-old, they weren’t exactly prepared to be  _mom and dad_  for her. She wasn’t sure they knew she still lived with them, or if they would notice if she stopped.

            The light tap on her shoulder startled her out of her thoughts. When she turned to see, she was met with another paper mug of steaming peppermint hot cocoa. Out of reflex, she reached up and took it, eyes darting up to catch Coach looking pointedly away from her. He slid into the seat across the table with a sour look.

            In his hands, was a chipped, sorry-looking ceramic mug with the words “#1 Coach” on the side and break lines held together with superglue all over it.

            Her breath caught in her throat as she met his eyes, and smiled.


	85. Danny x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanny, Sledding (or skiing or snowboarding?) & Cocoa.

            They tumbled through the doorway of the lodge, flurries of white flakes blowing in around them before Danny managed to close the door. Stiles stood stamping his boots free of snow, shaking it out of his hair like a dog. Danny gave him a little shove and laughed when he flailed, nearly toppling over. He let Stiles grab onto his arm to stay upright, and pulled him in closer.

            “You’re such a jerk,” Stiles laughed, shoving back gently.

            Danny just laughed, pulling Stiles into a cold, wet hug. He kissed the top of Stiles’ head before releasing him. “You intentionally crash into my sled to send us into a snowbank and  _ _I’m__  the jerk?” he teased.

            “You deserved it!” Stiles exclaimed, stamping his boots one more time on the rough mat at the entrance before stripping out of his gloves and hat. “ _ _You__ made us late to my snowboarding thing this morning.”

            “Oh!” Danny scoffed with a laugh as he stamped out his own boots. “That was  _ _me__? I don’t recall you  _ _complaining__  at the time. In fact, if I recall, you were actually  _ _begging__ -”

            “Woah, okay!” Stiles said, throwing a glance around at the people sitting around the main room. They were ignoring the couple, almost more like they were part of the festive decorations adorning every free space. “Let’s call it even and I’ll buy you some cocoa.”

            “Buying my silence?” Danny asked, though he began herding Stiles toward the kiosk inside the lodge that supplied warm beverages to incoming visitors.

            “I know, I’m a terrible human being.” Stiles grinned, grabbing Danny’s hand and tugging until they walked side-by-side to cross the room.

            Danny stepped up to the counter first, smiling softly at the young woman behind the counter. “Two hot chocolates please,” he said. “And can you add peppermint to one?”

            “Whipped cream?” she asked cheerfully.

            Behind him, Stiles snorted, but Danny ignored him in favor of smiling again. “Please,” he said, and shot Stiles a glare. He received only an innocent look in return.

            When the woman passed them two paper cups full of steamy cocoa, they each took one and moved away to make room for the next person heading over. Stiles took a sip of his immediately, burning his tongue, and tried in vain to keep the scorching hot liquid from burning when he swallowed. Danny couldn’t keep from laughing at him, although he had the good grace to hide it behind his own cup.

            “You wanna go warm up in the room?” he said when Stiles was done choking and hissing in breath to cool his mouth.

            Stiles raised one eyebrow at him, mouth still slack for cool air. “Are you making fun of me?”

            “I would never,” Danny answered, in a tone that said absolutely.

            Stiles eyed him for a moment, but then he was bumping gently into Danny’s shoulder, and nudging him in the direction of the stairway. “Yeah, okay,” he said with a smug smile that quickly turned mischievous. “I’ll forgive you if you get some of that whipped cream before coming upstairs.”

            Danny’s steps faltered for a moment, and then he grinned, chuckling softly. “I’ll meet you up there in a few minutes.”

            “I’ll be waiting!” Stiles singsonged, and he took the stairs two at a time.


	86. Scott x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sciles/hailstorm: Sharing, Umbrella, awkward.

            “Do you really have to use your fingers?” Scott groaned, watching Stiles swipe a curly fry through the mess of excess chili and cheese.

            “Is there another way to enjoy our favorite concoction?” Stiles asked before popping the sloppy mess into his mouth and leering at Scott.

            Scott made a face, but it was difficult to contain his smile. He reached over and neatly speared one of the fries near the edge of their shared plate, and held it up for Stiles to see. “Some of us aren’t heathens,” he said, ignoring Stiles eye roll.

            “Some of us aren’t heathens,” Stiles mimicked in a high tone, grabbing another fry with his fingers. Before it made it to his mouth, however, he paused, eyes flicking to the wall-sized windows at the front of the restaurant. Scott was already looking, listening to the hailstones pattering on the sidewalk outside. “Well that’s no good,” Stiles commented.

            “Really not good,” Scott agreed. “We never get hail.”

            “We never get a lot of things that we’ve been getting in the last couple months,” Stiles reminded him. “Do you think it’ll last?”

            Scott shrugged, finally turning back to the table. “I hope not, or we’re gonna end up with a few bruises. Well,” he said, grinning. “You will.”

            Stiles pulled a face at him. “Stupid magic healing powers,” he muttered, then straightened as the waitress arrived.

            “Anything I can get you two?” she quipped cheerfully, glancing between them. “More drinks?”

            Scott looked to Stiles, who shook his head at the unspoken question. “No,” Scott said with a charming smile. “Just the check, I think.”

            “No problem!” she said, then shifted to look between the two of them with a shy smile. “Just one?”

            “Yep!” Stiles replied before Scott could answer. He raised both eyebrows at Scott’s eye roll.

            The girl smiled, nodding. “You two are adorable,” she told them confidentially, leaning forward a little. “How long have you been together, if I may ask?”

            Scott sat up a little straighter at the comment. Stiles’ grin widened and before Scott could stop him, he answered: “Two years, give or take.”

            She made a small, happy noise, and then left to fetch their check. Scott kicked Stiles under the table, and Stiles burst into laughter. “You’re such an idiot,” Scott told him, but it didn’t lessen Stiles’ amusement. “You shouldn’t lie to people.”

            That gave Stiles pause, and he leaned back in his chair, amber-brown eyes meeting Scott’s. “Doesn’t have to be a lie,” he said quietly, knowing Scott would hear.

            Scott’s brow wrinkled. “What?”

            “It doesn’t. Have. to be a lie,” he said slowly. He held Scott’s gaze for another moment, then dropped it to his hands where they rested on the table. “Unless you want it to be, in which case, just forget I said anything.” His smile was weak at best.

            Though Scott shifted, trying to get Stiles’ attention, he kept his eyes resolutely on his hands and waited. Finally, Scott let out a breath. “You’re not joking.” When Stiles didn’t answer, Scott reached across the small table and laid his hand over both of Stiles’, stilling them. He waited until Stiles looked up, and then he smiled. “Let’s make it true.”

            Stiles gave a hesitant smile, turning his hand over in Scott’s just as the waitress arrived with their check.


	87. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek/ice storm: car broke down!

            “We should have taken my car,” Derek says from the passenger seat, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. He’s got his arms folded over his chest and Stiles can practically feel how superior he feels.

            Stiles turns the key in the ignition again, but it only clunks a couple of times and then goes dead. “It’s never done this,” he shoots back.

            “It never does, until you’re thirty minutes outside town in the middle of an ice storm,” Derek says.

            Stiles growls at him, but it has absolutely zero intimidating effect. The engine clunks a few more times when he turns the key, and then he slams both hands into the wheel and leans back in his seat. “We’re going to have to call someone to get us,” he declares.

            This causes Derek to open his eyes and turn his head to look over, though he doesn’t sit up. “Your dad?”

            Paling a little, Stiles opens his mouth and closes it again quickly. He doesn’t want to call his dad; he isn’t supposed to be out here with Derek. He is supposed to be at Scott’s for the weekend, not out gallivanting around trying to help Derek with some werewolf consultation in another city by pretending to be his emissary or whatever explanation Derek had tried to get him to memorize before they left.

            “It’ll have to be Scott,” Stiles says firmly. “Or Isaac. Or Chris. He’s got an SUV, I bet he wouldn’t-”

            “Not Chris,” Derek interrupts, rummaging in his pocket for his phone. “I’ll have Isaac bring my car.”

            Stiles listens while Derek makes the call, and every bit of the conversation pokes fun at how Stiles’ Jeep couldn’t handle the extreme weather. He scowls until Derek hangs up the phone, and then they both settle back to wait. It’s freezing outside and only getting colder, the icy rain freezing on contact as it hits the vehicle. Stiles wonders if Isaac will have to crack them out of a block of ice when he arrives. He wonders if they’ll have frozen to death before that.

            “It’s going to get really cold,” Stiles says idly, not even looking over. It’s uncomfortable enough just thinking his next words, much less saying them aloud to Derek of all people. “Should we, like… cuddle or something.”

            Derek makes a rough noise of exasperation at the suggestion. “I’m not cuddling with you, Stiles.”

            “Dude, it’s not really cuddling if it’s for survival,” Stiles protests. “I don’t want to be a human icicle!”

            He doesn’t need to look to see Derek’s eye roll. He doesn’t push the issue and they lapse into silence. Stiles can feel the slight breeze through the seam of his door, and he tugs his coat a little tighter, pulling his hands into the sleeves and hunkering his face down into his collar. They sit like that for a while, until Stiles can feel his ears going pink and his nose starts going numb, and that’s the moment Derek gives a heavy sigh and shifts around in the passenger seat to make room.

            “Get over here,” he says quietly, and Stiles looks over. “Your shivering is going to drive me up a wall, so come over here. We can not cuddle until Isaac gets here.”

            Stiles hesitates a moment, just to see if Derek is joking, but Derek doesn’t move at all, just glares impatiently at him until he clambers over the gear shift and gingerly arranges himself in Derek’s lap. It’s a little uncomfortable and cramped, but it’s warm, and he presses his frozen nose to the stubbly skin of Derek’s throat to warm it. He closes his eyes as Derek lowers his arms, wrapping them snugly around Stiles, and then they both fall still.

            Half an hour later, Isaac finds them exactly like that, both fast asleep.

            “About damn time,” Isaac mutters, and then he taps on the window to take them home.


	88. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sterek. college. coffee. cats.

            Stiles  _knows_ that he has to be up at 7 the next morning for a completely unrelated class. He  _knows_ he has had three months to finish this paper, and he knows that starting it at 4pm tonight, or he supposes last night judging by the glowing red 2:26am on his clock, was a bad idea. He  _knows_ that making his own coffee in his own shitty one-cup french press will ultimately save him time and possibly mean that he finishes before the paper is actually due.

            He  _knows_ all of that.

            And still, he finds himself tugging on a jacket and heading out into the crisp spring night to find someone who makes a better cup of coffee than he possibly could at this point.

            Which is how he finds himself slipping in the door of the 24-hour diner and taking a seat at the counter along with three other students who were probably in the same boat as him judging by their blank stares and defeated postures. Stiles recognizes the guy behind the counter, but can’t force his brain to come up with a name until he sees the little golden name tag that reads  _Isaac_.

            “What can I get for you?” the guy asks, looking too amused.

            “Whatever will keep me awake until 8:30 at least,” Stiles responds, not surprised at all at how tired he sounds.

            Isaac chuckles and disappears from Stiles’ line of view, presumably to scrape together the kind of caffeine Stiles needs right now. Stiles has about enough energy to lay his head down on the pillow of his arms and watch the door of the diner. Through the glass he can see a couple of people walking or weaving around, heading home for the night at last. He hears the bell jingle after a moment, and drags his eyes open to see who’d come in.

 _Oh_ , is his first thought, followed by:  _why_?

            The guy standing in the doorway scuffing his boots on the welcome mat is possibly the hottest guy Stiles has yet seen on campus, which is saying a lot considering the kind of people-watching Stiles normally does. Dark hair, pale eyes, the kind of jawline that could cut glass covered in what looked like three days of stubble.

            Somehow, Stiles manages to find some semblance of dignity as the guy takes a seat one stool over from him. However, just as Stiles begins to gain the ability to mind his own business, it registers just what exactly Hot Guy is  _wearing_. It is possibly the ugliest sweater Stiles has ever had to misfortune to lay eyes on; an off-black color that aimed for brown and missed, and it is just… covered in badly stitched cats.  _Dozens_ of cats.

            It is past 3am and Stiles has been up since six, writing since 4, and out of sanity at least an hour ago- that’s the only reason he can excuse the words that fall out of his mouth.

            “What are you  _wearing_?”

            The guy looks over, and then looks down, and then cringes, and Stiles knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that this guy didn’t put the sweater on of his own accord. He nearly swallows his own tongue when Hot Guy leans back away from the counter and suddenly strips out of the sweater and into a much more sensible, comfortable-looking t-shirt underneath.

            “It was for a- a thing,” the guy says, and Stiles finds himself hoping the guy never stops talking. “My sister made me wear it.”

            “Ugly sweater party?” Stiles asks. He knows that feel. There’s a reindeer-face sweater hanging in shame in his closet. “I thought people did those in the winter.”

            “They’re supposed to,” the guy says, scowling now.

            Stiles laughs, and nods his understanding. “Siblings,” he says, like he’d know anything about it. The closest thing he has to a sibling is his partner-in-crime, Scott. “I’m Stiles.”

            “Derek,” the guy says, and finally, there is the smile Stiles had been hoping to see and as soon as he’s seen it he  _knows_ that his paper is not getting finished today.


	89. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek. Kittens, Oreos, libraries.

            “She needs a name,” Stiles says as Derek slips the Camaro into a parking space away from the rush of people cramming into spaces side by side at the entrance. He doesn’t miss the eyeroll Stiles gives him because of it, but he does ignore it.

            “Cat,” he says dryly as he turns the key and gets out of the car.

            He doesn’t miss Stiles’ put-upon sigh, either. “You can’t just call her ‘cat’ forever.”

            “I actually can,” he says, beeping the locks and then following Stiles toward the old stone building at the other end of the parking lot. It is low-set, only one story, but what it lacks in height it makes up for in length, sprawling out like a sunbathing cat. He scowls at the reminder.

            “What about… Jessica,” Stiles suggests. “Or Ramone. Oo, we could call her Catniss.”

            “We are not calling her Catniss,” Derek says, herding Stiles onward toward the front steps. “You can’t give a cat a human name, anyway.”

            That, at least, gives Stiles some pause, long enough for them to get in the front door and begin to head toward the information desk. Unfortunately, there is no line, which gives Stiles the ability to walk right up and ask the young woman behind the desk: “Can you name a cat a person name?”

            She looks between the two of them, and when Derek doesn’t offer explanation or aid, she just tips her head a little and says: “I think you can name a cat whatever you want.”

            “Thank you,” Stiles said, puffing up a little bit as he shoots a smug smile at Derek. “We’re looking for… “ He trails off and Derek had wondered when it was going to dawn on him that there was not a ‘caring for cats’ section of the library. “Well, I’m not really sure what we’re looking for. Are there books on how to take care of kittens?”

            The woman smiles and Derek practically sees her business-mode set in as she turns to her computer. Her fingers deftly tap the keys for a few moments, and then she scribbles some information on a piece of paper and passes it to Stiles. “There you are.”

            “Thanks,” Stiles says, reading the paper a little more intensely than strictly necessary. Derek peeked over his shoulder at the collection of numbers, and then gently takes his arm and begins to lead him toward the correct section.

            He isn’t sure how long they spend perusing the section on the care of various animals, but he does know he objects to boas, canaries, guinea pigs, emus, fennec foxes, and capybaras. He doesn’t even know what a capybara is, but it can’t be a good idea. He begins to wonder if agreeing to housing this first stray is going to act as a gateway and it is as he is envisioning a zoo parked in his backyard that Stiles finally whaps him gently on the shoulder with a books about the care of kittens to get his attention.

            “I think this will do,” Stiles says. He has an odd look on his face, so Derek just accepts the book and they head down to the check-out area together. Derek checks the book out, and hands it over to Stiles.

            In the car on the way home, a thought occurs to Derek. “Why didn’t you just look it up on the internet?”

            Stiles, halfway through the book, glances over and then back down to the pages. “I did,” he says. “And even if I didn’t, it’s not like taking care of a kitten can be that hard.”

            “But then… why did we come out here?” Derek asks, confused.

            A soft chuckle escapes Stiles, but he shrugs. “It’s just, you know, we took her in and we don’t really have… anything for her. It’s like… it’s like a baby book. Or something. Also my dad is coming over tomorrow, and I don’t think he really trusts the internet, so… we look like responsible adults now.”

            Derek sighs. “Oreo,” he says.

            It’s Stiles’ turn to be confused, and he looks over at Derek with a furrowed brow.

            “Oreo,” Derek repeats. “We’re not very responsible adults if we can’t even name our cat.”

            That gets a bark of laughter out of Stiles, one of Derek’s favorite sounds. “Because she’s black and white?”

            “And… very sweet,” Derek grudgingly admits.  

            Stiles’ soft smile has only a smidgen of smugness to it. “I knew you liked her.”


	90. Derek and Laura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a [post by baconhills](http://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/78245248843) on Tumblr:  
> “if they modulate their howls with a rapid shift in tone two wolves can sound like twenty”  
> wow that’s really specific derek  
> TWO WOLVES  
> WHEN DID YOU AND LAURA HAVE TO PRETEND TO BE A PACK TOGETHER?

            “Put your coat on, Derek,” she told him, shoving things into her backpack. Most of them were singed and smelled of smoke and fear, even though it had been weeks since the fire.

            “You won’t even tell me where we’re going!” he protested, but he already had one arm in the sleeve of his father’s leather jacket. If he closed his eyes, he could just barely catch the scent of him still. “What about Uncle Peter?”

            “He’ll be fine where he is,” Laura said, the sharpness of the words softened by how tired she sounded. He knew she’d been running on almost no sleep lately.

            “So we’re just supposed to leave him there?” Derek asked, incredulous. Their mother would never have left a pack mate behind. Never. “Laura, stop!” He reached out, grabbed her thin wrist in his hand. She felt  _fragile_.

            “We can’t stay here, Derek,” she told him. It sounded like a confession. It sounded like defeat.

            “Mom said once you start running, you never stop,” Derek said, searching her eyes.

            “There are six hunters on their way here, three of them Argents, and mom is dead,” Laura replied, holding his gaze. “I’m your alpha now, and I’m not letting what’s left of my pack die.”

            Her voice trembled on the last word, and maybe that was what convinced Derek to listen. He released her wrist and nodded, resigning himself to her plan. “Okay,” he said, turning to begin packing his own bag. They didn’t have much.

            There was no fuss made when she closed the motel room door for the last time. It wasn’t their home. There was nothing inside that would tether them to it or make them reluctant to leave it. Still, Derek felt a certain sense of finality when she passed the key over the counter to the night attendant and told him that they were heading for Oregon to stay with family. They had no family in Oregon, and they wouldn’t go there to stay with them even if they did.

            She grabbed his arm as they reached the edge of the parking lot. The Camaro was missing.

            “They’re here,” she hissed, audible only to sensitive werewolf hearing as she dragged him behind the closest van.

            “Your car…” Derek murmured.

            “I’ll report it stolen,” Laura said, dismissing it. “For now, we’re going to have to run.” She raised her nose, tipping her head slightly to catch any sound that would give away the hunters. They must not have wanted to be seen going in the front. Derek was thankful Laura hadn’t tried to skulk out.

            “Okay,” Derek said, letting the shift take over. He lowered his eyes, hiding the blue even though he knew Laura already knew.

            “You remember how mom taught us to modulate our howls?” Laura asked quietly. “To scare off lone hunters?”

            “Yes,” Derek said instantly. Peter had taken him out several times just to mess with hunters when he was younger.

            “Good,” she said, her own shift slipping into place, her eyes brightening to crimson. She dropped to all fours, claws clicking on the cement of the beat-up parking lot. “You’re going to need it.”


	91. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Major Character Death (Not Stiles or Derek)
> 
> Because [this](http://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/78206567576) happened.

            Derek sees the moment the switch takes place, the moment the nogitsune recedes and allows Stiles to surface. It’s a moment too late to stop, a moment too late to pull the powerful blow, to keep the blade from severing Isaac’s spine. He sees the terror dawn in Stiles’ eyes as the rusty scent of blood blooms in the air around them.

            “NO!” Stiles shouts, releasing the handle of the blade as if burned as Isaac slumps to the ground. “Isaac, no!” Stiles drops to his knees, frantically touching, looking for a way to fix what he’s done.

            Derek knows it’s too late for that, too; he can’t hear a heartbeat anymore. Sound hollows out and he can barely hear the pleas, the broken apologies spilling from Stiles’ lips, over the memory of Isaac’s voice saying softly  _did I do something wrong?_  All he can see are how slick and red Stiles’ hands are. All he can feel is the pressing grief of having lost his entire pack for a second time, the crushing guilt of knowing that every bite he had given as a gift had only taken more away from the desperate teens.

            When Stiles looks up, finally, Derek closes his eyes, jaw clenching shut. There are a million things he wants to say; to reassure Stiles, to pull him away from the body of his last beta, to tell him that it isn’t his fault.

            All he can see, over and over, is Stiles’ long fingers wrapped around the hilt of the blade.

            All he can see is the crimson of Isaac’s life seeping out onto the grey pavement.

            All he can see is the last shred of good he thought he’d done, gone.

            So he doesn’t say any of the things on the tip of his tongue.

            He just steps back when Stiles stumbles toward him.

            And then he leaves.

 

* * *

 

            Once upon a time, Stiles had owned a key to the loft. He’d kept it in a box, tucked into the headboard of his bed, along with a necklace that had belonged to his mother. Derek had taken it back when he learned Stiles was possessed, and he keeps it in a puzzle box in his closet.

            He’d wanted to give it back, someday. He’d liked having Stiles in the loft.

            Now, he doesn’t open the door.

            He hears the knocking, the heavy pound of Stiles’ fist against the metal, but he ignores it. He hears every plea begging him to open the door, every soft thud of Stiles’ palm that precedes Derek’s name.

            He listens until the hoarse calls dim, until he can hear Stiles sliding his back down the door to sit at the base. He listens to Stiles whisper disjointed apologies. He listens to the silence that floods in afterward, and he wonders if the nogitsune is enjoying Stiles’ misery as much as it has enjoyed everyone’ else’s. He can’t think of any other reason why it would let Stiles have control for so long.

            Eventually, Stiles’ heartbeat slows, and Derek rolls out of bed. He pads across the loft and draws open the door enough to see through the crack. Stiles is leaned up against it, sound asleep. It’s late, very late, and he knows he should call someone, anyone, to tell them where Stiles is. Where the nogitsune is, he reminds himself.

            Instead, he pushes open the door and slides through the opening. Stiles doesn’t even stir as Derek slides his arms under him and lifts him up, shouldering open the door to get them both through. Stiles smells like antiseptic soap and raw skin, and Derek wonders how many times he showered and scrubbed to rid himself of the scent of Isaac’s blood.

            When he lays Stiles out on the warm spot of the bed, it occurs to him that he could end all of this, and that it wouldn’t even be that difficult. Just one claw across his throat. They’d been searching for a way to exorcise the nogitsune for weeks, but how many people would die in the meantime? And what was one more mark on Derek’s tally, anyway?

            There are types of difficult, however, and Derek knows killing Stiles isn’t one of them; it’s a shade of impossible.

            So he just wearily clasps on one of the rune-carved manacles they’d all made to temporarily hold the nogitsune, and goes to call Deaton.


	92. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek. Snowflakes. Laughter, love, hopefulness.

            “I haven’t seen snow since I was eleven,” Stiles said, nose practically pressed to the huge window in Derek’s loft. Far below, the snow was actually starting to accumulate into a thin layer, with more puffy, white crystals drifting down every moment. Even through the window Stiles knew it was quieter than usual, the roads clear of all but the necessary traffic until the storm passed.

            “Used to snow in New York,” Derek said from the couch, not looking up from his book.

            Stiles glanced over his shoulder, then back outside. “Guess you’re used to it then.”

            “It gets less exciting when you have to drive in it,” Derek told him with a little huff of amusement. “Though I’m sure your Jeep will be better than my Camaro was.”

            “Did you spin donuts in it?” Stiles asked. “I bet you did.”

            “My sister would have had my ass if I did,” Derek said, finally looking over.

            Stiles smiled. “You did.”

            Rolling his eyes, Derek smiled as well. “Yeah.”

            “I remember the last time it snowed like this,” Stiles said quietly, eyes following various flakes on their way to the ground. “When it was over, the ground was just __blanketed__ in white, and the sun was out, and everything sparkled like a bunch of stars had piled up.”

            “Hm,” Derek said thoughtfully, closing his book and laying it on the cabinet beside the couch. “Does that make it all falling stars while it’s snowing?”

            “That’d be a lot of wishes,” Stiles said, smirking.

            “They’re only little wishes,” Derek said. “Snowflake sized wishes.”

            “Like what?” Stiles asked, turning around completely to face him.

            “Like… I could wish you’d get rid of that awful blue and orange shirt,” Derek said.

            Stiles gave a snort of laughter, because that was never going to happen. He loved that shirt. He loved that shirt more after seeing it on Derek, who was never going to live that down. Ever. “I could wish that you’d get curtains, like a real boy.”

            Derek’s nose scrunched. Curtains. Sounded like work. “I could wish I had enough covers you couldn’t possibly steal them all in one night,” he said, managing to keep a straight face.

            That amount of covers did not exist, and they both knew it. “I could wish you had more pillows, so I could stop having to bring my own if I stay over.”

            “I wish you’d stop just __staying over__ ,” Derek said quietly.

            That gave Stiles pause, his heartbeat stuttering at the implication. He swallowed, throat clicking in the stillness. “That’s not a snowflake sized wish,” he mumbled, meeting Derek’s eyes.

            “There’s a lot of snowflakes out there,” Derek replied. “Maybe if I wish on all of them at once…”

            “Do you?” Stiles asked as he stepped over to the couch. “Do you wish that?”

            “Yeah,” Derek said, looking up to keep eye contact. “I do.”

            “Okay,” Stiles replied. “I’m not- I’m not a shooting star, or even a falling snowflake, but I think… I think I can grant that wish.”


	93. Danny x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanny/creature from holiday lore: diamond, knit, honest.

            Stiles pushed around some of the amazing mashed sweet potatoes on his plate, too stuffed to actually eat any more of them. Across the table, Danny was in a similar state of being, creating a small tower out of steamed green beans. He kept scratching idly at his sleeve, and Stiles had nothing but sympathy for him; the overlarge, horrendously-colored sweaters they were wearing had to be made of twine or hemp rope or something equally coarse and itchy. He couldn’t understand why they were still wearing them, when the woman who’d given the sweaters to them was long gone and Danny’s parents had left the two of them to clean up.

            Leaning forward, Stiles caught Danny’s eye. “I gotta say something… promise you won’t be offended?”

            “Probably no,” Danny said just as quietly.

            Stiles rolled his eyes, but continued anyway. “When do we get to take off these sweaters?” He plucked at the sleeve of the green and red monstrosity he was wearing. “I think my first three layers of skin have been abraded off now.”

            “You’re fine,” Danny told him, but he smiled. “And if you intend to stick around, you’re gonna have to get used to it. Aunt Ellie knits new sweaters every year for everyone, and my mom makes us wear them until she’s sure she’s not coming back.”

            Stifling a groan, Stiles sat back in his seat. “You’re kidding, please tell me you’re kidding.”

            “Not kidding,” Danny said.

            “Your mom-”

            A great thunk and clatter from the rooftop cut off whatever Stiles had been about to say, and both boys were on their feet instantly. Without speaking, they rushed to the front door, shoved their feet into their shoes, and called that they were going to check it out just as Danny’s parents appeared. Whatever it was, Danny hadn’t found time to tell his parents about the supernatural creatures in their lives yet, and whatever had just crash landed on the roof was too large to be natural.

            “Is that…?” Danny asked, squinting up into the darkness.

            A loud bleat cut the night air, and the deer-like creature perched on the apex of the roof turned to look at them. It had long, arching antlers that curved up over it’s head and neck, one of them busted up at the top. Upon seeing them, it let out another pitiful call and limped forward a step. To both their surprise, it took a small hop into the air and  _didn’t land_. They watched as it struggled briefly, as if the air upon which it walked was as slippery as ice, and then it was glide-hopping down to them.

            It’s hooves clattered noisily on the sidewalk when it finally stepped off of the air, and Stiles and Danny backed up to give it space. “Reindeer,” Stiles said softly, thinking how much  _larger_  it was in person than in storybooks.

            “What’s it wearing?” Danny asked, leaning to the side to get a better look as the creature limped a step closer and gave another honk of distress.

            Hanging around its chest was the tatters of some kind of harness. When Stiles tentatively outstretched on hand, the reindeer hobbled to him, pressing a soft nose into his palm. He threw Danny a glance, and then stepped to the side, running a soothing hand over the creature’s back before lifting the edge of the harness with two fingers. It was filthy, looking like it had been shredded and burned, barely clinging to the upset creature.

            Along one strip of the harness, Stiles spotted embroidery, and turned it to see better.

            Framed by two diamond-studded snowflakes was the single word:  _Blitzen._

            “Oh, we are in so much trouble,” he breathed out, looking to Danny.

            Danny nodded, obviously questioning his decisions to involve himself in Stiles’ weird, supernatural-filled life, but he said simply: “You call Scott and Derek. I’ll tell my parents we have to go.”


	94. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek/snow-in: blanket on fire, carrots, laughter.

            “You’re sure it’s okay?” Stiles asked, whirling the big quilt up over their heads so that it settled around both their shoulders. Derek reached up, pulling his edge around himself.

            “It’s fine, Stiles,” he said. “A fire in a fireplace is fine.”

            Stiles hummed agreement and leaned forward to lift his mug of cocoa from the hearth before pressing closer into Derek’s side. “I still can’t feel my fingers.”

            Reaching over, Derek gently tapped each of Stiles’ fingers wrapped around the mug. “Looks like they’re all still there.”

            “What about my ears?” Stiles asked, eyes lighting up with mischief. “I sacrificed my hat, after all.”

            Derek let out a puff of laughter, but he glanced over, pretending to inspect Stiles’ ears. “A little red, but definitely still there, too.”

            “Well, I’m  _sure_  my nose has fallen off,” Stiles said, lifting his chin enough that Derek could see.

            “Hm, let’s see…” Derek cupped Stiles’ jaw, turning his head a little to each side and looking at his nose before meeting his eyes. Gravely, he nodded. “Yep, it’s a goner. But I have good news.”

            “Good news?” Stiles said, pressing his chilly cheek into Derek’s warm palm.

            “We’ve located a donor,” Derek said. From under one leg, he pulled a long carrot and held it up for Stiles to see.

            Stiles burst into laughter as he snatched the vegetable away from him. “Did you steal this from our snowmen!” he asked incredulously, setting his cocoa back on the hearth to keep warm. He held the carrot up to his nose as if it was replacing his own and waggled it at Derek.

            Derek straightened up a little, dignified. “Snow wolves do not have carrots for noses.”

            More laughter, and then Stiles flung himself bodily at Derek, throwing his arms around his neck. Derek allowed himself to be tackled to the floor, shifting so that Stiles could lay on his chest, the old quilt draped over them. Still smiling, Stiles placed his hands on Derek’s sternum and rested his chin on them as he searched Derek’s eyes.

            “You’re a big softie, you know?” he murmured.

            Derek smiled, putting one hand behind his own head and stroking the other down Stiles’ side. “It’s a secret,” he replied. “You only know because you’re my soft spot.”

            Stiles’ cheeks may have flushed a little, but his smile never wavered.


	95. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek/Snow - stillness, fingers, laced.

            It rarely ever happened in Beacon Hills- the thick, reflective white blanketing everything, muffling noise and movement. Everything had closed down after the first three inches, and the roads had cleared of traffic less than an hour later as everyone retreated to the warm indoors. Stiles’ father had called to tell him not to go driving anywhere, which Stiles had technically obeyed since he let Derek drive them out here.

            Derek had picked him up and they’d taken it slow, letting the Jeep feel its way through the snow, until they reached the coffee shop. The hot cocoa was heavenly as Stiles wrapped his hands around it, letting the warmth leech through his gloves as Derek dragged him back out the door the moment he had his own drink in hand.

            Through it all, Derek never let slip where they were going. Stiles guessed a couple of times before finally settling into the seat and blowing gently on his drink until he recognized the route. He didn’t say a word until they pulled up to the preserve entrance. Derek pulled off to the side of the road, and shut off the Jeep.

            “The woods?” Stiles said skeptically, burrowing down further into the seat in an attempt to stay put where it was warm.

            “Come on,” Derek said, opening his door.

            Sighing, Stiles clambered out of the vehicle, flipping up his hood and cinching the cord. He followed Derek around the “closed” sign, keeping his gloved hands wrapped around the now lukewarm cocoa for every ounce of warmth he could glean.

            “You don’t need all that,” Derek said. “It’s not as cold as you think.”

            “Knowing it’s warmer than absolute zero isn’t reassuring,” Stiles quipped, but he shook his head until his hood fell back. He was surprised to find that Derek was right; there was no snow falling, no wind, and the sun was streaming down through the bare trees.

            He glanced over, and Derek smiled, soft. “Do you hear that?”

            Stiles tipped his head, listening for whatever Derek could hear, but there was nothing. No wind, no cars, no birds, no nothing. Everything was still and silent, all the sound absorbed by the snow underfoot. “No, what is it?”

            “Nothing,” Derek said, smile widening. “It’s nothing. Isn’t it wonderful?”

            Stiles gave a snort of laughter as he realized what Derek was saying. There wasn’t any noise. To a werewolf who could hear everything for such a long distance, even the quiet beat of a human heard, the silence must be blissful. No extra concentration. No tuning out background noises. No hum of existence all around him. Just… peace.

            So instead of breaking it, Stiles simply held out his hand, lacing his fingers into Derek’s, and began to walk.


	96. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> STEREK (up to S2 is FINE!), pumpkin, luck, yodeling

            “We’re in luck!” Stiles quips, pointing ahead of them to a small, squat house with a few teal pumpkins on the front porch. The three kids trundling along between him and Derek all make an excited clamor, and the youngest of the bunch begins to toddle faster toward the house. Derek reaches forward and hooks a finger into the back of the kid’s superman backpack.

            “Not so fast,” Derek rumbles. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

            Stiles checks his watch. They’ve already had the kids for an hour, and they were only given two for trick-or-treating in this area. None of the kids look tired, though, so he doesn’t bother mentioning it aloud. Instead, he picks up his own pace, and the kids quickly follow after. Behind him, Derek sighs.

            The woman who answers the door is older, with a kindly smile. Stiles waits a beat to see if the children will say anything about the pumpkins, and sure enough, after they’ve yelled Trick or Treat! at the top of their lungs, the oldest one holds back the youngest and says: “Can we please get something from the teal pumpkin treats?”

            With a pleased noise, the lady fetches a different bowl from just inside the door and offers it to the children. It looks like there are little toys and small books and trinkets. Stiles watches them pick, offering a smile of his own to the woman, and then the children are looking at him, waiting for permission to leave.

            “What do you say?”

            “Thank you!” they all chorus, and the lady bids them Happy Halloween and they are on their way again.

            When they reach the sidewalk, Derek asks them what they all picked while Stiles begins to hunt for the next allergy-safe house. The kids all dig in their buckets and produce a tiny toy dino, a rubber eraser cap that looks like a monster, and the littlest one holds up a booklet with what appears to be a yelling man on the front cover. Derek steadies the small hand so he can read the title.

            “The Joys of Yodeling?” he says aloud. Ahead of them, Stiles laughs.


	97. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sterek. Cuddling, chocolate, pack.

“One for you,” Stiles said, handing a chocolate pudding cup to Erica. “And one for you,” he said, passing one to Boyd next. “And you and you and you!” He tossed cups to Isaac, Allison, and Scott. “Pudding for EVERYONE!” he said, too loudly for the quiet space.

Derek shot him a scalding look as he gently passed spoons around the ground, watching them trade hands from pack member to pack member. “It’s not a carnival,” he told Stiles, tossing a spoon at him instead of passing it. “You’re not awarding prizes.”

Stiles caught the spoon with his free hand and waggled the last pudding cup with his other. “Then I guess I won’t give you one,” he said smugly, even as he stepped over to where Derek was sitting and plopped down beside him. “You’ll just have to share.”

Moving to accommodate the invasion of his personal space, Derek plucked the pudding cup from Stiles’ fingers before he could get the lid peeled off. “Will I now,” he said, laughing at Stiles’ undignified squawk. He grinned as he kept the cup at bay, Stiles practically crawling into his lap in an attempt to retrieve it.

With a thoroughly put-out huff, Stiles settled onto his lap, knees on either side of Derek’s hips, and looked him dead in the eyes. “Please?” The word was soft, but not pleading.

Derek brought his hand down and set the cup in Stiles’ grasp with a roll of his eyes. “I suppose I can share,” he said, well aware of just how soft he was on Stiles these days.

Leaning forward, Stiles kissed the tip of Derek’s nose and then slid sideways so that he was wedged between Derek and the plush arm of the couch. There was a certain amount of glee to the way he peeled open the cup and dragged the tip of the spoon across the surface of the pudding. Derek watched him take the first bite, and then looked up to the rest of the pack. They were all staring, unamused at the entire scenario.

“Can we start the movie, now?” Boyd asked dryly.


	98. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whichever fandom, "I remember you"

            He woke with a  _pounding_ headache and more than one muscle aching with the cold of the cement floor upon which he laid. With an unsteady groan, he sat up, the room around him spinning dizzyingly until he closed his eyes again. He reached one trembling hand to the back of his head, where the pain was worst, and his fingers came away sticky with drying blood.

            Somewhere in the distance, he found he could hear fighting of some sort. Snarls, animalistic and savage, filtered through the heavy wooden door a few feet to his right. He didn’t know what they were, but he really,  _really_ hoped he wouldn’t have to fight whatever it was to get out of here. Maybe whatever they were, they would kill each other off, or come close enough that he could just walk out.

            Hey, he could always hope.

            It didn’t take long for the scuffling noises to disappear, drenching the room in utter silence for a few heart-pounding moments. He listened intently, almost to the point of actually trying to get up and get out when there was a shuddering  _THUD_ against the door. Whatever it was, it had hit hard enough to shake the door. He certainly didn’t like the sound of that.

            For better or worse, it did not take long for the latch on the door to splinter and give way to the brutal attack upon it. He scrambled back, head still spinning, as some kind of monster burst into the room, flanked by two others. He could hear yet more of them snarling and calling in the hall somewhere.

            He looked up, trying to reconcile that he was about to die with the fact that he didn’t even know who he  _was_ when his panicked gaze caught upon the pale blue eyes of the lead monster and something within him  _clicked_.

 _Derek_ , his mind whispered.

            “Stiles, are you okay?” the creature - Derek - asked, sounding worried as his features melted into something more human, something familiar.

            “Stiles?” he echoed uncertainly, back pressed against the cold cement wall behind him. “Me?”

            “Yes, you,” Derek said softly, looking confused. “You don’t… shit. You don’t remember, do you… he didn’t even leave you that much.”

            “Who?” he asked, not feeling any better to see even more of the creatures crowding into the room now. A vague sense of recognition fluttered at the rear of his mind, but no other names, no other memory.

            “Deucalion,” Derek said, dismissing it in the next second as he knelt in front of Stiles. “You really don’t even remember your name?”

            “No,” Stiles said, cheeks flushing with heat at having to admit to it. “But I do seem to remember yours. I remember you, Derek.”


	99. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek. Summer evening breeze. Mutual pining, preferably with hints of a happy ending.

            Stiles sat on the edge of the roof, heels banging gently against the brick of the wall beneath him as he looked out over the city. Everything seemed so  _peaceful_ from this height, like there wasn’t a supernatural war going on nightly, like they weren’t all fighting tooth and claw to stay alive to protect the people they loved. Up here it was  _quiet_ , a soft summer breeze ruffling at his hair, ghosting over his skin, whispering of familiar, warm times long past where things had been simpler, comforting even.

            He closed his eyes, tipping his head back a little and letting the sensation wash over him for a few heartbeats as he took a long, slow breath and let it out even slower.

            When he opened his eyes to the evening sky, his gaze ticked over the stars, the blanket of night just beginning to quench the fire of day. He smiled.

            Behind him, the roof door clicked, and he was on his feet before it opened, though he relaxed his grip on his steel-barbed bat when he realized it was just Derek.

            “They’re out,” Derek said, controlling the close of the door so it shut quietly. “Time to go.”

            Stiles nodded, because he’d been up here as a sentry, making sure nothing came in at them from the sky unannounced, but in the utter quiet, he’d started to relax. He knew that they weren’t supposed to be here, that the grotesques that guarded this sector of the city would be wakening in the next few minutes, but he just…

            “In a minute,” he said softly, nodding his head toward the cityscape laid out beneath them. “Come look.”

            Derek gave him a searching look, and then stepped over to the edge of the roof. Stiles watched as he took in the city, face softening just a little in fondness. The warmth in his expression brought a smile to Stiles’ lips, and he didn’t bother to hide it. Derek was  _beautiful_ when he loved something.

            “It looks better from up here,” Derek said, gentle, like he wished things could be different up close. “Can’t smell the blood.”

            With a sigh, Stiles followed his gaze out over the city one last time. Two buildings over, one of the demonic grotesques began to stir, the stony stiffness fading from its leathery wings as it stretched. They needed to leave, to get back to the pack before things got dangerous.

            “Yeah,” he agreed, barely a breath but knowing the wolf would hear him. Knowing that Derek would hear the resignation in his voice but not having the energy to hide it. He turned away from the city to head for the door.

            He didn’t see the way Derek watched him leave, gaze clinging to him as though he wished he could drag Stiles back to where things were not quite so broken for just a few more minutes. By the time he opened the door and looked back, Derek was already moving to join him, not quite meeting his eyes. 

            Stiles let him pass, and, as he had always done, followed after him.


	100. Gen, Pack Feels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen/Holiday dinner: Cooking, pack, and dorky aprons. Er, and can I add potentially drawable?

            “First car in the forest,” Isaac said, bursting into the kitchen. “Sounds like Stiles’ Jeep.”

            “Of course it is,” Erica said with a roll of her eyes. “There’s food.”

            Boyd glanced over. “Not enough room in the Jeep for Scott and Melissa.”

            Isaac shrugged. “Guess they got held up.” He threw a glance around at the disaster zone that was the Hale house kitchen and a part of him lamented the loss of the brand new, sparkling-clean kitchen they’d just finished two weeks ago. “Need any help?”

            “Keep them out of our hair for another hour or so,” Derek groused from the far end of the kitchen. Isaac craned his neck, trying to see what he was doing, but whatever was in Derek’s large, red bowl, it was blocked. “Go on,” Derek said, as if he could see Isaac.

            Taking one last look at Erica mixing some kind of Jell-o concoction and Boyd cutting cheese to layer around a platter filled with crackers, Isaac ducked out of the room and returned to the front door. It was chilly outside and cloudy, but the ground was clear. When he took a seat on the front porch and tipped his head just-so, he could hear the rumble of the Jeep’s tires on the forest road. Even farther than that, he could hear noise, but he couldn’t place it yet so he just listened to Stiles drive closer and closer, listening to the soft chatter of his pack mates in the kitchen, until he could see the nose of the Jeep in the distance.

            He tuned out the kitchen and hopped to his feet, waving when Stiles was in range to see him. He watched as Stiles parked, and got out with his father. “We’re first?” Stiles called, leaning his seat forward to grab a trash bag full of small presents from the back seat.

            “Scott’s behind you by a mile or two,” Isaac called back. “But, yeah. The turkey is not done yet and we’re not allowed in the kitchen.”

            “You’re not supposed to tell him that,” Derek groused from the kitchen. Isaac smiled and ignored him.

            “It’s good to see you, Isaac,” the sheriff said. Isaac smiled. “You’re looking well.”

            “We’re all doing well, sir,” Isaac said. “Derek’s making sure we’re all fed and bathed and he takes us on walks and everything.”

            The sheriff chuckled, nodding off the gentle sarcasm. “I know he is.” He held up the dish in his hands and Isaac smelled buffalo sauce and chicken. There was a tupperware of celery and a box of crackers on top. “We brought dip.”

            “Smells delicious,” Isaac said, opening the door to let them in.

            He could hear Scott’s mother’s car picking carefully through the forest now, so he just let the two humans pass and stayed to wait. A few moments later, the small car rumbled to a stop, and then Melissa and Scott were joining the mix, Melissa wrapping him up in a big hug. He took the dishes she fetched from the car, depositing them in Erica’s arms before he returned to keep watch.

            It wasn’t long before the others were arriving and the huge family room was starting to get packed. Lydia arrived with Allison and Chris in tow, and shortly after them Jackson, as grouchy as ever, was followed inside by Danny. Dr. Deaton and Morrell arrived last, bearing enough home made cheesecakes to feed an army. Isaac made sure all of it arrived safely to either the dining room or the kitchen, and went back and forth fetching drinks. Allison joined to help after a little bit, smiling almost shyly at him when he thanked her softly.

            After an hour, Boyd finally came out and called everyone to the table and Isaac could practically feel the happiness radiating from him. Isaac knew the feeling; after so much time spent alone or with family that was such a pale ghost of what family could be, this was nearly overwhelming. So many people who cared about one another, so many people who smelled of home and love and pack. Some of it was extended pack more than anything, but still good, still a comfort. He gave Boyd’s arm a squeeze as he followed the last of the company into the dining room.

            He was impressed that they all fit, and that Derek had managed to procure enough dishes and silverware for everyone. He suspected that, after everything Derek had been through, that this first time hosting Christmas dinner at his renovated home was more important to Derek than any of them.

            Most of the food was already laid out and just as Isaac was taking his seat, Erica was pushing out of the kitchen and bringing a steaming bowl of stuffing with her. Scott jumped to help, but she growled gently at him and he quickly sat back down. “Play nice,” Melissa scolded, and Erica had the good grace to blush.

            “So much food,” Stiles said, eyes wide, a huge smile on his lips. It was a good look on him, especially at this time of year. Isaac knew that before all the werewolf business, Stiles had been used to quiet Christmases at home, or sometimes spending them at Scott’s while his dad worked. He was glad they were both here now.

            “We cooked all day yesterday,” Boyd said with a slow smile. No one was touching the food, all eyes flicking to the large, open space at the head of the table. He lowered his voice, even though everyone knew Derek would hear him anyway. “That recipe box Erica found? Most of the notecards were salvageable.”

            “We must’ve cooked… twenty things from them,” Erica added. “You’re all taking home leftovers.”

            “Sounds like a good plan,” Deaton said. Erica perked a little at the praise. He may not have been their pack emissary, but it still felt good.

            Just then, the kitchen door opened and Derek appeared, carrying a steaming, seasoned turkey, garnished with stuffing and vegetables on a huge, silvery platter. He was smiling, just a little nervously, but when everyone began to applaud and admire the feast aloud, he broke into a real, honest smile.

            “Tada,” he said as he set it on the table in the empty space, removing his oven mitts. Beside him, Stiles snorted.

            “Happy Howlidays,” he snickered. “I can’t believe you actually wore the apron.”

            Derek fixed him with a scowl he didn’t appear to really mean. “It was a gift from my pack,” he said seriously.

            Stiles schooled his expression into one of utter seriousness. “Very important to wear it then,” he said.

            “I think it looks good on you, Derek,” Lydia said, smoothing her cloth napkin on her lap and then looking up. “Very domestic. You’ll be a pack of weredogs in no time.”

            Derek scowled at her as everyone laughed, and he untied the apron. Erica fetched both the mitts and the apron from him, doing a poor job hiding her smile from him. He bared his teeth at her in jest, and she ducked her head but didn’t look at all repentant.

            When she returned from the kitchen, bearing a the knife and long tined fork to slice the turkey, everyone gave cheers. She passed them off to Derek, and took a seat. He took a deep breath, looking over the turkey, the food, the guests. He smiled at his betas, traded a smile with Scott, the other alpha at the table, and then let his breath out.

            “Thanks for coming,” he said when everyone quieted. “It’s means… a lot, more than I can say, to have all of you here together. We’ve been through a lot. We’ve… learned a lot. Given up and gained a lot, and all for… well, this.”

            Smiles flushed through the gathered for a moment at the soft, halting speech, and then Scott piped up first. “Who knew you’d be such a softie in your old age, alpha Hale.”

            Everyone laughed, even Derek. “I’m not old yet, McCall," he said as he rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling as he began to slice the bird.


	101. Jackson x Lydia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> exhaustion, sympathy, support Pairing: Lydia/Jackson

            Jackson nudged his way in through the creaky door of the hospital room, nose twitching and ears flicking back at the harsh sound he’d made trying to get inside. On the small bed, Lydia stirred and turned her head enough to see him, and he lifted his head, tail wagging. A little thrill ran through him to see her smile, though he kept his teeth closed on his package instead of opening his jaws to give her a wolfy grin in return.

            “Come on,” she said tiredly, patting the bed beside her and scooting closer to the far edge to give him room.

            With almost no effort, Jackson hauled his big furry butt up onto the foot of the bed and deposited his plastic bag of goods beside her. He waited just long enough for her to move it to one side before he flopped down next to her, big head on her thighs and and one long forelimb over her shins. He was positioned just right to have his ear against the swell of her belly.

            The tiny, fast heartbeat beneath her skin, a speedy undercurrent to her own slower beats, was both comforting and exciting.

            “Hear her?” Lydia said, sounding far too tired to be awake. Jackson lifted his head enough to give her a happy, sidelong glance. “Stiles found a stethoscope, so I could listen too. I don’t think anything will ever compare.”

            Jackson made a low contented sound, and when she reached to rub her fingers in the fur around his ears, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to enjoy it for just a moment, bracing himself for what came next.

            She was  _tired_ and he knew that, she’d been tired for almost two weeks now. Her back and her joints and her  _everything_ ached almost constantly, enough that the pack had ground to a halt here, at the hospital, because they thought her time was nearing. Jackson could sense it too, stayed as a wolf more and more because he could do everything better except hold her hand.

            And as it turned out, he didn’t have to hold her hand to leech away most of her aches and pains.

            As it turned out, just having her fingers in his fur gave him enough contact for that.

            So he took another breath, and began.


	102. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek fluff, words are: ladybug, grumpy, remember.

            “What is- what is this?” Stiles asked with a laugh, reaching for the small red blob on Derek’s bed. “Is this a ladybug? Is this a ladybug stuffed animal?”

            Across the room, Derek stiffened. “No,” he said, voice that particular tone of bitchy that said Stiles should stop talking.

            “Why do you have a stuffed ladybug?” Stiles asked, absolutely ignoring the tone. “Did someone leave it here? Is it  _yours_? I pictured a lot of different stuffed animals you might sleep with, but I gotta say- hey!”

            Stiles reached for the bug Derek had swiped, but Derek was faster at turning away. “It’s nothing,” he said grouchily. “Just a… it’s nothing.”

            “It’s not,” Stiles said, hands dropping to his sides. “I’m sorry.”

            Derek turned to look at him, brows scrunching in question.

            “It’s important, right?” Stiles asked, not really expecting an answer. It had to be important, to cause Derek to make that kind of face. “Who’d it belong to?”

            Slowly, Derek rubbed his thumb over the soft material of the small, stuffed creature. “It- it’s mine,” he admitted, soft. “Cora had it. She left it when she went back. I figured it had just gone up with everything else.”

            Stiles moved in closer, wrapping his arms around Derek’s middle from behind and hooking his chin over Derek’s slumped shoulder. He hummed a questioning noise, and Derek looked sidelong at him.

            “My mom,” Derek answered the unvoiced question. “She gave it to me when I was a little kid. Said that ladybugs were lucky, and told me to always treat them kindly.”

            Stiles hid his smile in Derek’s shoulder and then lifted his head to say: “And you just got it back? Maybe that means some good things are on the way. That’d be a hell of a nice change.”

            Derek snorted and shifted to get Stiles to loosen his grip, and then turned around to face him, put his arms over Stiles’ shoulder and drop his forehead against Stiles. He pushed forward and Stiles held steady until their lips brushed.

            When they pulled back, Derek smiled. “I think some good things have already arrived.”

            Stiles snorted. “Sap,” he accused softly, but he didn’t pull away, just leaned in for another soft kiss.


	103. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek, hurt/comfort, words: window, phone call, compass

            “Is he still breathing?” Stiles asked, trying to keep his voice level and his eyes on the road.

            Beside him, Scott pressed the phone closer to his ear, concentrating, and then nodded. When he noticed Stiles wasn’t looking, he said: “Yeah, I can still hear him, but Stiles… it doesn’t sound good.”

            Stiles grit his teeth, but managed to keep his foot steady on the gas. “Lydia?”

            “I’m trying,” she said from the backseat, sounding helpless. Allison leaned closer, silent support, and peeked to look at the strange device in her hands. It resembled a compass, but instead of a compass rose, there were random symbols and letters and the needle seemed to spin at random. “I’m still getting used to this thing.  Go left, I think. When you can.”

            He took the next left without question, even though it lead to a long lane of nothing, fields and farmhouses as far as the eye could see. Barely a mile down the road Lydia stiffened and pointed to a decrepit farm building in the distance.

            “There,” she said firmly. “Derek’s in there.”

            Stiles beeped the horn to get the attention of the betas running alongside his Jeep, and pointed toward the crumbling barn with its row of silos. “There!” he shouted out the window, the wind ripping the words from his lips. Even as he said it, the wolves overtook his car and sprinted toward the buildings.

            Scott passed Alison the phone with its still-open line to Derek. “Do not crash through the wall this time,” Scott requested to Stiles as he began to climb through the open window, already shifting. He hit the ground running and disappeared after the rest of the pack.

            “ _That was one time!!_ ” Stiles shouted after him.

            By the time they managed to get to the buildings and slam the Jeep into park, Stiles could hear the communicative howls of success; they had found Derek. Stiles got out just in time to meet them at the door of the barn as Boyd and Erica dragged a semi-conscious Derek out. His wrists were bleeding black and there was a mark around his neck that said someone had definitely had him collared. Free of the wolfsbane that had almost certainly been around his limbs, his bruises were already healing.

            Stiles let out a breath of relief… at least he was  _alive_.

            “Come on, get him into the car,” Stiles said, trying not to be in the way while still absolutely being in the way.

            Derek lifted his head at the sound of Stiles’ voice. “Stiles?”

            “Yeah buddy, I’m here,” Stiles assured him as they attempted to get him into the passenger seat. He reached out and laid a hand on Derek’s cold skin, and Stiles couldn’t help the dread that washed through him at that. Wolves were not supposed to be cool to the touch. “You’re safe, we’ve got you now. We’re going home.”

            The nonsense noise Derek made might have been an agreement, and Stiles gave his arm a squeeze before heading around to the driver side door. Whoever had taken Derek, whoever had  _hurt_ him,  was going to  _pay_.


	104. Danny x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> first Date cuddles" Danny/stiles Fluffy awkward cuteness (cause part of my brain thinks back to when they were in the locker room and instead of joking he was serious, though sex didn't happen, at least not on the first date, but cuddles are more than acceptable)

            Stiles wasn’t sure what he’d expected from a first date; certainly not one with Danny, and certainly not a  _serious_ first date. It had been a joke, he was sure, until Danny had found him in the hallway on the way out of school that afternoon. Until Danny had told him  _five-thirty at my place_  and disappeared into the welling crowd of students leaving for the day.

            Stiles had stood there staring after him until Scott found him and dragged him away.

            But it had been… pleasant. A pleasant, warm suprise to arrive at Danny’s house to find that Danny had taken the request for a date seriously. He had made them dinner - nothing fancy, Danny wasn’t much for cooking, but pasta and garlic bread and a mix of steamed veggies rated pretty darn good in Stiles’ book - and although it was awkward at first, they had found their rhythm talking about this and that until it became clear there was only so much picking at their empty plates could accomplish.

            “Movie?” Danny asked. It wasn’t too late to start one, and Stiles thought even if it had been, he’d have said yes anyway.

            “Sure! Got a favorite?” Stiles asked, pushing his chair out and helping Danny to clear dishes. When Danny made no move to clean them immediately, Stiles followed his lead.

            Danny seemed to think about the question for a moment, and then shrugged. “You pick. We’ve got a lot.”

            Stiles trailed after him to the room with the television, and Danny spread open a cabinet full of DVDs for him to peruse. Plucking the first title he recognized and liked, he passed the case to Danny and watched as he cracked it open and plunked the disk into the player. Then he turned, finally catching a glimpse of the furniture, and realized that there was only a loveseat and a well-loved recliner, and Danny was already moving to sit on the former.

            As the recliner was the sort of loved that said very clearly no one but its regular tenant ever sat in it, Stiles tentatively took a seat on the far side of the loveseat from Danny, suddenly very uncertain what to do with his hands or his feet or his everything.

            And that was when Danny rolled his eyes and shifted on the couch and all but pulled Stiles into his lap to lie with his back to Danny’s front. Stiles stiffened for just a moment, but Danny wasn’t really looking at him, he was just pressing play on the movie and waiting for Stiles to relax.

            So Stiles did, he counted slowly and with each number he picked out good things about this new situation. Danny was warm. He wasn’t exactly soft, couldn’t be with all that lean muscle and teenage bones, but he was  _comfortable_ and Stiles thought maybe that was more important. And it was nice, nicer than Stiles had expected, to be this close to someone else, someone he liked, someone he thought might just like him back.

            So he relaxed, eyes slipping closed for a just a moment before he opened them to watch the movie, snuggled in against Danny’s chest.

            And if he fell asleep halfway through the movie, well, Danny didn’t seem to mind.


	105. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek: rainy | boots | honeycomb.

            Derek pulled open the heavy sliding door to his apartment with one hand, a paper bag in his other. Inside it was quiet except for the soft murmur of incessant rain on the roof and the even softer beat of a familiar heart. The rhythm was slow enough that Derek knew Stiles had fallen asleep while Derek was out, which was nothing short of a blessing at this point, and so instead of waking him, Derek kicked off his rain boots and headed for the kitchen.

            It took a while for the kettle to boil, but Derek didn’t like to use the microwave to heat water if only because it made the mugs too hot to handle. The last thing Stiles needed was a burn on top of the miserable curse he’d been suffering the past two days. When the kettle began to whistle its soft, strange hum, Derek pulled it from the flame and poured the scalding liquid over the little tea strainers and into their two favorite mugs.

            Pale, warm brown blossomed in the water, changing its colors as the tea leaves steeped. Derek watched, counting down the brew time in his head, until it was finished. The strainers clattered overly-loud in the sink and Derek winced as Stiles’ heartbeat sluggishly picked up speed as he began to rouse. He hadn’t meant to be that loud.

            He grabbed a spoon, the small paper bag from the counter, and the handles of both mugs, and set off for the main room so he would be there when Stiles woke. He slid into view just in time for Stiles to crack open his eyes and settle his gaze upon Derek.

            “Hey,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

            “Hey,” Derek responded with a warm smile, setting the mugs one by one on the night stand, followed by the bag.  “How’re you feeling?”

            “Like a fairy queen cursed me with seven days of dying.” He managed a smile but Derek could tell how tired he was.

            “Maybe next time you’ll accept her marriage proposal,” Derek teased as he sat on the edge on the bed, lifting the bag and unrolling the top. From within, he pulled a small glass container filled with amber liquid and chunks of golden honeycomb.

            “Honeycomb?” Stiles asked dubiously, leaning to look closer. Derek understood the doubt- Stiles wasn’t sick, he was cursed, which was why he was sleeping over here rather than at his own house where his father would definitely find out he’d been up to more supernatural shenanigans with the wolves he called friends.

            “It won’t cure the curse,” Derek apologized, spooning some of the honey into their mugs and fishing out a small piece of the comb. “But it might cheer you up a little.”

            Stiles hummed a noise of doubt, sitting up enough to accept the offered sweet treat straight from Derek’s fingers. Derek watched as he moved it around in his mouth, could only imagine that clever tongue pressing the honey from the wax before swallowing. When Stiles caught his eye, Derek felt his cheeks heat a little, but he returned Stiles’ smile without hesitation.

            “The tea is probably a little too hot still,” he said after clearing his throat. He put the bag and container on the night stand and then crawled into bed beside Stiles, curling up around him as Stiles shifted into him and closed his eyes again. “I’ll wake you when it’s cooled off some.”

            Stiles didn’t respond, already mostly asleep, and Derek settled down to listen to the calming patter of rain on the roof and the beat of Stiles’ heart beneath his hands.


	106. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek - Magic Coffee Shop.

            “It’s magic,” Stiles informed Derek as they watched the small crew of folks bustling behind the busy counter of the coffee shop.

            “It’s really good, I get it,” Derek said, pale eyes skimming over the chalkboard above the counter. There were hundreds of possible combinations and not one of them sounded like anything he would drink willingly. Stiles had dragged him here to investigate the newest coffee shop in Beacon Hills.

            “No,” Stiles hissed under his breath, leaning closer. “It’s actual magic. As in they are using magic in their coffee. Spells. Or, well, really I guess it’s more like potions if you want to get really-”

            “Stiles,” Derek interrupted, managing not to put his hand over the boy’s mouth, but only just barely. It was their turn to order. “What do you want?”

            “Cocoa,” Stiles said. “Peppermint cocoa, shot of uh…” He swirled his finger around, pointing to a section of the blackboard that had SHOTS written on it in big bold letters. Underneath was a list of things that made no sense like  _happiness_ and  _good luck_  and  _love_. “A shot of luck.”

            Derek gave him a half-hearted scowl but when the pleasant barista chirped at them to request their order he relayed both Stiles’ and his own orders without hesitation. At the prodding of Stiles’ insistent finger, he also ordered a shot of  _happiness_ added to his hazelnut latte. He felt ridiculous saying it aloud, but the barista just smiled as they whirled away from them to complete the order.

            “It’s not magic,” Derek argued with Stiles as soon as they were no longer the center of someone’s attention. “It’s probably just silly names for spices.”

            “It’s not spices,” Stiles said, motioning toward where their barista was making their order. It didn’t take long, and then the barista was back in front of them, two steaming ceramic mugs in their hands.

            “Here you are!” they said cheerfully, passing over the drinks.

            Stiles thanked them and Derek managed a smile and a decent tip before they moved away. Before Stiles could get any more chatty about the subject, Derek put his nose to the drink, taking a deep whiff. His eyes widened at the obvious scent of recently-performed magic, and he looked over at Stiles.

            “Told you,” Stiles said with a smirk. “Magic.”


	107. Boyd x Erica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fluff, baking, magic ship: Boyd/Erica

            “It’s practically alchemy,” Erica said from the countertop, kicking her heel against the cabinet beneath her. “You put in all the ingredients and apply energy and it turns into something new.”

            “Baking is hardly magic,” Boyd told her, amusement lifting the edges of his lips, lighting up his features as he stirred the goopy mixture in the bowl. “Science maybe.”

            “Alchemy,” Erica reiterated with a final nod. She reached over and dipped her finger into the sweet mixture, pulling away when Boyd gave a protesting laugh.

            “We used raw eggs,” he told her as she licked her fingers slowly clean while looking right at him. “There could be salmonella in that.”

            She poked out her tongue at him. “We can’t get sick,” she reminded him, pink tongue then curling around her own thumb. “Perks of being a werewolf.”

            He snorted, but gave her a smile. “One of many.”

            “Eating all the sweets we want,” she said, counting on her now-clean fingers. “Staying up all night without getting tired. Doing lots of things without getting tired, actually.”

            As he poured the mixture into the baking pan, he gave her a sidelong look. “Like practicing alchemy?”

            She couldn’t stop the bark of joyous laughter that bubbled out of her at the comment, didn’t even try, just leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Like alchemy,” she agreed as he set the bowl down and kissed her proper.


	108. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Bashfyl. Sterek, oddly shaped soulmarks, HEA

            “Can I see?” Scott asked one morning, sitting on the porch next to Derek after a long run through the full moon woods.

            Derek looked over, brows drawn as though trying to parse what Scott was asking him. When Scott touched his arm, where the two rings around his bicep were, Derek hummed a noise of recognition but didn’t answer. Scott hadn’t really expected him to; he’d asked several times to see Derek’s soul mark and every time Derek had evaded answering.

            Scott didn’t press. Some people were very open about their marks, eager to find someone whose mark matched their own, eager to settle down with a mate or to find the perfect best friend. Others were more secretive, kept their marks hidden under clothing if they could, covered them other ways if they couldn’t. Derek was part of the latter group. Among his betas, theories abounded, most of them involving the loss of his family or a dead lover.

            Scott, however, had his own theory, one that involved the way Derek sometimes subtly and absently touched his own forearm when a certain human was hanging around Derek’s pack.

            “It’s a llama,” Scott said, and though he was very carefully Not Looking at Derek, he saw the little jump, felt the weight of Derek’s gaze turn to him. He looked over, smiling a little. “Stiles’ soul mark, I mean. It looks like a llama.”

            It was impossible to miss the way Derek’s heart sped up a little at the clarification, and Scott knew he was right. He clambered to his feet, stretching his tired limbs and enjoying the achy burn of them healing faster than they ever could have as a human. The rest of the wolves had left a while ago, filtering back to their homes to leave the two alphas to their business. Scott practically flopped down from the last step and onto soft forest soil, and then hesitated.

            “You should tell him,” he said, looking back to where Derek was running a thumb over the inside of his forearm, right where Stiles’ mark was. “If it were you, he’d be happy. You both would.”

            The smile Derek flashes him is hesitant but grateful as he stands as well, heading for the car parked in front of the old Hale house. He bumps shoulders with Scott on the way past, and Scott watches with a fond smile until Derek closes the door to the car before heading to his motorbike.

            All that was left to do now was await the ecstatic phone call from his best friend.


	109. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snarky. Kissing. Unplanned. (Sterek)

            Stiles jerked awake to the sound of his name, flailing around until his hand came into contact with a solid surface. The sound of quiet laughter registered as he looked blearily up at Derek, who was leaning over the back of the loveseat looking down at him.

            “Shut up, I’m awake,” Stiles said, a little sleep slurred and well aware he was fooling no one. Partially because… there was no one to fool. “Where’d everyone go?”

            “Home, like responsible teenagers,” Derek said, rocking forward a little on his folded arms but not leaving his perch. “I assume you can’t relate.”

            Stiles hit him with a pillow, or tried to, because Derek just grabbed the pillow and dropped it back at Stiles’ feet without any effort at all. Unfair. “I am a responsible adult,” Stiles informed him hautily, scrubbing at one eye. Fuck, he still had to drive home.

            “Barely,” Derek said, and Stiles pulled a face.

            “I am a responsible eighteen and three months… person,” Stiles amended, then squinted up at Derek. “Eighteen is a legal adult, Derek. My original statement stands.”

            “But you’re not,” Derek said, standing up and walking around the back of the couch to head for the door to see Stiles out. “And you should, unless you’re planning on crashing here.”

            “Yes, that would go well,” Stiles said, kicking one leg out to level himself into a semblance of sitting. He scrubbed at his face with both hands before clambering to his feet. He was already going to be late getting home, and his dad was never happy about that. It’s like it didn’t even matter that he was attending secret werewolf pack meetings to help protect the entire town from destruction by the supernatural on a regular basis. “Plus, if I stayed, you’d have to make me breakfast. How would I explain that to Scott?”

            “You’re right, he would assume things,” Derek agreed, in a tone that said he totally didn’t agree at all. “Scott is well known for being the one to jump to crazy conclusions.”

            “Who said anything about crazy conclusions?” Stiles protested, even though that’s exactly what he’d been implying. “I meant I’d have to explain how you suddenly learned to cook!”

            Derek ushered him toward the exit. “I can cook,” he said. “Scott knows that.”

            Stiles dug in his heels and turned to look at Derek, surprised at how closely he’d been following. Derek looked a little surprised too, but didn’t back up. “You cook for Scott? Did you teach him? You know, he was worried about eating raw meat as a wolf, when he first got turned. I told him it wasn’t like werewolves carry around little werewolf mmph-”

            Stiles’ rambling was interrupted by the press of Derek’s lips. He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a squeak before just going with it, pressing back into the kiss. His eyes slid closed and he let Derek walk him back another step, two, until he was up against the front door. Derek’s hand was gentle and warm along his jaw, thumb stroking his cheek, and Stiles thought he could easily stay here just like this forever, stuck in the warm slide of lips and tongue, and the heady feel of Derek’s hands on him.

When Derek finally pulled back, it wasn’t far, and he looked about as surprised as Stiles felt. Stiles swallowed thickly, licking his lips and enjoying the way Derek’s eyes instantly dropped to follow the motion.

            “You- you could have just covered my mouth with your hand, if you wanted me to be quiet,” Stiles said, quiet, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

            “You licked my hand last time I did that,” Derek said.

            “So you thought it would better if I licked your lips?” Stiles asked incredulously.

            “Well?” Derek said, like it should be obvious, and Stiles realized that… well. It was. It was so much better.

            “Touché,” he said, reaching for the doorknob. Derek’s hand swiftly covered his, stopping him.

            “Stay,” Derek said softly.

            “Shouldn’t I be the one saying that to you?” Stiles asked, with no sense of self preservation. This was why he could not have nice things, but it was just so worth it to see the way Derek closed his eyes and silently asked himself why do I put up with this?

            Before Derek could say anything, Stiles decided to remind him why, curling his fingers into the rough fabric of Derek’s shirt and pulling him in for another kiss. He would stay, if Derek still wanted him to. He had to explain it to his father either way. He might as well get breakfast out of it.


	110. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek, Glasses. Magic. Diner.

            Derek fiddled with the fragile pair of glasses Stiles had unofficially borrowed from Deaton after Allison had borrowed them without permission from her father. They were, according to Allison, a magical artifact that was somehow supposed to help the wearer to see the truth. As this would more than likely reveal werewolves without any guesswork, it was understandable that none of them wanted such an artifact in the hands of hunters, even one that had agreed to a tentative truce.

            So now they were here, hiding at a diner Derek normally wouldn’t be caught dead at, looking for answers. Stiles was flipping through pages of a book he had also questionably borrowed, reading about curses and enchantments, so that they could tell if the glasses were even safe to put on at all.

            “Wow, it’s like  _really_ unhelpful,” Stiles said around his mouthful of curly fries. He laid the book down and spun it so Derek could read, even though he said it aloud anyway. “Enchantments aid the intended user, curses aid the original caster. For example, a truth enchantment would reveal the truth to the user, where as a truth curse would force the user to reveal the truth to the caster.”

            “How do you tell the difference, if you didn’t cast the spell?” Derek asked, glancing down at the flowing script.

            “Exactly,” Stiles said, like he won an argument, even though for once they were not arguing. “It doesn’t say. I guess someone’s just going to have to, like, put them on.”

            “Are you volunteering?” Derek asked, raising a brow.

            “To test unknown magic on myself?” Stiles returned, then scoffed. Derek could see him shifting to get ready to make a grab for the glasses, so he moved them enough Stiles had to reconsider. “Oh, come on.”

            “And what if they’re cursed?” Derek said, reasonably.

            “Then you ask me embarrassing questions until I take them off,” Stiles answered immediately. He had thought about this, clearly. “They can’t be  _that_ dangerous if Chris didn’t lock them up.”

            Derek relented with a sigh, because he really did not think that the glasses were actually  _harmful_. And they  _did_ need to know what exactly they did. Stiles snatched them up greedily, unfolding the delicate arms with a grace he seemed to reserve only for magic, and slipped them onto his face. Derek couldn’t help the stray though zipping through his mind, that Stiles really did look cute in glasses.

            “Oh,” Stiles said, small and big, when he looked at Derek. He swallowed, looking like he could see ghosts currently, and Derek figured that meant they’d been right. It would reveal werewolves.

            “You’ve seen me wolf out,” Derek told him, holding out a hand to take the glasses.

            “You love me,” Stiles said, hushed, and Derek’s blood ran cold as he looked up to meet Stiles’ eyes.

            Oh, no. No no no.

            “What?” Derek said, mouth dry, mind tailspinning.

            “You  _love_ me,” Stiles repeated, reverently, not looking away.

            “Stiles, I…” Derek shook his head, not sure what he could even say. Of course he did. He had for a while, but he’d never intended to say a word. He’d never intended to ruin what they had going, like he had ruined so many other things.

            Stiles snatched the glasses off his nose like they’d burned him, and if they hadn’t been sitting in a booth, he’d have knocked the chair  _and_ table over in his scramble to get to his feet. Derek pulled back a little when Stiles came at him with the glasses, but he froze when Stiles did, and then allowed Stiles to place the glasses on him, instead.

            With a heavy whump, Stiles sat back down across from him, staring at him with wide, urgent eyes. Derek blinked once, twice, and then he suddenly understood how Stiles knew. He could see it there, plain as day, in the way Stiles looked at him. In the beat of his heart, in the catch of his breath, in the quirk of his smile. Nothing had really changed, Derek couldn’t see anything actually  _different_ about Stiles while looking through the glasses, but he  _knew_.

            Stiles loved him, too.


	111. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Sterek prompts: scent, breakfast, pack

            Derek woke to an empty bed, the place where Stiles usually slept rumpled and cold and bare. He closed his eyes, focusing his hearing for a second to see if he had gotten up only temporarily, and was surprised to find not the single heartbeat he expected, but several others as well. He sat up, the sound of murmurs loud in his ears, the shift of dishes almost deafening now that he was listening for it.

            Saturday. He’d completely forgotten.

            Rolling to one side, he stumbled from the bed, wondering how Stiles had possibly gotten up without waking him, and realizing that he must have gotten very used to his presence to have ignored him. Derek stripped quickly out of his scant sleepwear and pulled on the first acceptable clean pieces of clothing he found before exiting the bedroom.

            The scent of cooking food hit him in the face as he did so, the oily scent of bacon and hash browns clinging to his face. He heard the crunch of the toaster lever as the first bread went in. No one but Stiles looked over as Derek reached the doorway, so no one but Stiles caught his sleep-warm smile of greeting.

            “Finally,” Stiles said, turning back to his task at the stove. He started cracking eggs into a pan with one hand and scrambling them with the spatula he held in his other.

            Derek hummed agreement, crossing the room to look over Stiles’ shoulder, snug up against his back. Stiles leaned into him for just a second before elbowing him out of the way. Derek stole a quick kiss, pressed against the exposed nape of Stiles’ neck, before he joined the rest of the pack at the table. The dining room table was one of the few things that had survived the fire well enough to be refurbished instead of replaced.

            “Morning,” Erica greeted, passing him the orange juice. “Nice of you to join us.”

            He pulled a little face at her, used to her snarkiness. It was worse in the morning, if that was even possible. She did not like to wake up any more than he did. “Coffee?” he asked hopefully.

            “Scott and Allison are grabbing it on their way,” Isaac commented, setting the last of the plates in place. “They should be here soon.”

            “So I’m not the latest one,” Derek pointed out.

            Stiles turned around to give him a pointed look. “They’re showing up fifteen minutes late with starbucks,” he said. “It’s a thing. And also different than rolling out of bed late when you’re sleeping at the same place you’re going.”

            “You could have woken me up at any time,” Derek said, in his own defense, as apparently no one else was going to come to it.

            Stiles’ eyes softened a little at that, and he smiled warmly. “No,” he said, “I really couldn’t have. You’re really cute when you sleep.”

            Derek could feel his cheeks heating a little at the words, but for once, he found he really didn’t care.


	112. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek prompts: books, summer, ice cream.

            “Isn’t chocolate bad for canines?” Stiles asked, his elbows on the table, chin in his hands.

            Across from him, Derek looked up from his book, spoon full of fancy dark chocolate ice cream halfway to his face. “What?”

            “Chocolate,” Stiles repeated, motioning with a flick of his eyes to Derek’s pint. “You’re a werewolf. Shouldn’t you be, like, allergic? Or something.”

            Derek gave him a look that very clearly said he was having an internal struggle about whether or not the ridiculous words coming out of Stiles’ mouth merited a coherent response. “I’m not… you know I’m not an actual dog, right?” he said after a few moments. “I’m- I’m a supernatural being.”

            Stiles considered this for a moment, before digging his spoon into the melting goop his own ice cream was becoming in the swelter of summer heat that had prompted them to break out the ice cream in the first place. Maybe he would bring up air conditioning again. “But you turn into a whole actual wolf.”

            “I- … but that’s not… the same thing,” Derek said slowly. “I’m not becoming a wolf, I’m still just a werewolf, in a wolf… shape.”

            Stiles sighed. “I get why Scott isn’t allergic to chocolate,” he explained. “But you were born a werewolf, not a human. So like, aren’t you part wolf?”

            “No,” Derek said, and Stiles could hear his patience running thin but this had been bothering him for a while. “I’m not part human, part wolf. I’m entirely werewolf.”

            “And werewolves are not canines, despite that they turn into actual wolves,” Stiles said. “Sorry, wolf  _shapes_.” He knew how petty that last word sounded but he didn’t take it back.

            “Yes,” Derek agreed. “We are a completely different species.”

            Stiles sighed, and looked back down to the book he had selected, one of many from the pile they were supposed to be going through. He could feel Derek watching him, but he ignored it, rattling one foot around as his eyes skimmed words his brain didn’t read, until another thought occurred to him.

            “What kind of lizard do you think a kanima is?”

            The sound of Derek’s head hitting the table was highly satisfying.


	113. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek, Home. Late. Dry.

            Despite the hour, Stiles gave serious consideration to pulling over and waiting out the worst of the rain torrenting down all around him. He had stayed later than intended with his father, way past when their usual Thursday night dinner ended, knowing full well he would catch the start of the storm that had been rolling in all day. It had been worth it, though. His dad had had a rough week at work, and getting a chance to hang out with Stiles usually helped.

            Still, the extra time meant he could barely see the road now. He was glad to be on the home stretch, on a road he could drive with his eyes closed because he knew it so well now. In the distance, through the downpour, he could see the faint glow of the porch light, or maybe that was the front window. Didn’t matter- the important part was that there was a light on for him.

            He smiled, feeling warm.

            Even as he hit the end of the driveway, he could see Derek standing on their covered porch, blurry through the rain, but the white of the towel in his hands unmistakable. Stiles parked as close to the house as he could without breaching his Jeep onto the porch, and darted out into the storm.

            Derek met him at the top of the stairs, wrapping him up in the towel and huffing a sound of annoyance when Stiles leaned into him hard enough to send them both stumbling. He got his feet under him quickly, and practically became a wall for Stiles.

            “You didn’t call,” Derek said scrubbing a corner of the towel over Stiles’ damp hair.

            “I’m not  _that_ late,” Stiles argued, leaning into the touch. “Thanks for the towel.”

            Derek softened a little, and kissed his cheek. “Come on,” he said gently, pulling away and tugging Stiles with him. “Let’s get you warm and dry, and into bed.”

            “I knew it,” Stiles said, following behind him. “You just wanted to get me into bed.”

            Derek rolled his eyes, and took the bait. “It’s your bed too.”

            Stiles grinned. “ _Yeah_ it is.”


	114. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek prompt!: ghost, twitch, unimpressed

            Derek stood with his hip against the kitchen counter, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and yesterday’s paper folded over in his other so he could read. Dawn had not considered getting out of bed yet, and Derek kind of wanted to just go back to sleep, but Stiles had not come home the night before, and Derek wanted to be awake when he got in. If only to give him a piece of his mind for staying out without checking in.

            The scrape of a pen on the kitchen table drew Derek’s attention. Everything was still. Brow furrowing Derek watched for another moment, and just as he was about to go back to reading, the pen twitched again. He set the paper down on the counter and crossed to the table in two quick strides to snatch up the offending pen.

            “What the hell?” he asked, not really sure who he was asking. The pen certainly couldn’t hear him. He gave a glance around, but the windows were closed and nothing else in the house was moving, nothing that could have moved the pen. “Who’s here?”

            The lights flickered once.

            Derek bared his teeth, but there wasn’t actually anything to fight. Nothing even to see. Except…

            There, at the edge of the room, at the doorway, a shimmer to the air, iridescent and vaguely human shaped. Familiar.

            “Stiles,” Derek said, and the figure became more solid at the name. “Stiles, what… what happened?” He looked very much like… “Are you a ghost?” He didn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation.

            “Technically I think I’m an apparition?” Stiles said, voice tinny and small.

            Derek gave him an entirely unimpressed look, but crossed the room to stand in front of him. “Are you…?” he started.

            “No!” Stiles assured him quickly. “At least, I don’t  _think_ I’m dead. I ran into something in the woods on the road in. It stalled my car, and I woke up… like this. Well, less like this, it’s taken me awhile to figure out This.  Anyway, do you maybe want to come, I don’t know. Rescue me. Or something.”

            “Definitely  _or something_ ,” Derek said, setting his mug on the edge of the counter and walking through Stiles on his way to the door.

            “Rude,” Stiles called after he reformed.

            “I’ll see you soon,” Derek said, grabbing his coat and heading out. He could already tell it was going to be a long day.


	115. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek Prompts: Pillow, cats, fuzzy socks

            Stiles twitched his foot, laughing as one of the kittens twitched sideways to get away and then immediately whirled around, paws out, before pouncing on his bright, fuzzy sock. They wrestled for a few seconds until one of the others darted over and attempted to tackle the tabby attached to Stiles’ foot. The two sprung away, toppling in a tangle onto the third, who squeaked and bolted right up onto Stiles’ chest.

            Laughing, Stiles caught her and cuddled her up into a ball. “It’s okay, bitty,” he soothed, stroking a thumb over the bridge of her nose. “Don’t mind them, Your brothers are dicks.”

            “Language,” Derek said, without looking up from his book. He was stretched out next to Stiles, their big, black cat curled up on the pillow beside his head. She was not yet sleeping, watching over her three kittens as they played.

            “They’re not children,” Stiles said, still petting the calico in his hands. Her ears had relaxed and she was leaning into his touch. “She doesn’t know it’s a bad word. She doesn’t even know what bad words are. Or good words.”

            Derek glanced sidelong at him, and then down at the cat, and then at the two tussling kittens at the foot of the bed. The brown tabby had the orange tabby by the throat and they were kicking at each other.

            Stiles shifted the kitten in his hands and brought her nose to his. “Dicks,” he said. “Shitheads. Fuckers.”

            With a sigh, Derek turned his attention back to his book.


	116. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek, Rain, coffee, traffic

            Derek leaned his head back against the headrest, containing his groan of irritation. He should never have stopped for coffee. He had known better even as he had turned on the car and pulled out of the lot. He had known it would make him twenty minutes late. It was not like there was even an accident on his route. People were just… slow. Traffic was just traffic and maybe he really would just stop driving places and run everywhere. He could beat the snail’s pace of this traffic jam on foot, maybe even without being a werewolf.

            Lifting his head, he saw the car ahead of him had inched forward a little, so he inched forward a little too.

            Way down the road, lightning arced down from the clouds, branching off into a huge pattern before disappearing, leaving blue-green streaks of memory in his vision. Thunder clapped a second later, rumbling his car, and the rain began to fall. Great. Now he would be late and sopping wet. At least his body temperature meant that drying off would be quick.

            In the empty cupholder, his phone began to ring, and Derek glanced down to see Stiles’ name on the screen. He lifted the phone and set his coffee in its place before swiping to answer.

            “Where are you?” Stiles asked without preamble.

            “Stuck on Division street,” Derek said, already knowing where this would go. “Traffic jam.”

            “Division? Wait, you drove?” Stiles asked incredulously. “Why? You’d be here already if you ran!”

            “Yeah,” Derek sighed, inching forward again.

            There was a pause, and Derek could practically hear Stiles drawing conclusions. Accurate ones. “What did you need to carry?”

            “Coffee,” he said, resigning to his fate.

            “Coffee?” Stiles asked incredulously. “You know we have coffee here, right?”

            Derek grimaced. “I wouldn’t classify that as coffee.”

            Stiles made a disgruntled noise, and then huffed. “Okay. Just, you know, hurry up! You’re late for your own birthday party! Who does that, honestly.”

            “I’ll hurry,” Derek said, unable to keep the fond smile from creeping onto his lips. “See you soon.”

            “See you soon,” Stiles said softly.


	117. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek Prompt: Smoke, Laughter, Bitter

            Stiles poked at the embers glowing bright and hot beneath the campfire grill, just to see the sparks swirl into the air. This was the part of a fire he liked best- when the flames had died and the smoke had cleared and the heat just radiated from the pit, shimmering the air. It was the best kind of fire to cook on, as the heat evened out without fire to lick up at the foil-wrapped packets of food they’d made earlier in the evening.

            Beside him, Derek was roasting a marshmallow on a stick he had carved into a point with one sharp claw. Stiles wasn’t about to argue about eating dessert before dinner. Time was kind of meaningless on this camping trip. So far they had mostly been sleeping when they were tired, eating when they were hungry, and picking up activities when the fancy struck them.

            Stiles had earlier challenged Derek to a contest, to see who could catch a fish first- a fishing pole or a werewolf’s claws. Stiles hadn’t really expected Derek to accept the challenge or to take it seriously, but it was worth tromping all the way down to the nearby stream in order to watch Derek slip on the slimy river rocks and plant face first into the water. Stiles had laughed so hard he’d nearly fell in right beside him.

            Derek had not been so graceful as to stop from pulling him anyway. Stiles found he couldn’t be bitter about the impromptu dip in the icy water, at least not after Derek had hauled him over and kissed him senseless. Especially not after Derek had helped warm him up when they returned to their tent.

            Now there were two cleaned fish in one of the foil packets, wrapped up with onions and butter and lemon they had brought with them for just such a purpose. The other package was full of sweet potato cubes and more butter, and Derek had almost finished roasting the first of many marshmallows. Stiles could not think of a better way to end their trip than snuggling up to eat, and watching the fire burn down until they fell asleep together.


	118. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sterek X star trek (or just space) crossover!

            Stiles flinched a little as Scott ran the regenerator over the split in his brow, the itchy sensation of healing skin accelerated to the point of pain before disappearing. Scott removed the tool and checked the wound, wiping at the tacky, drying blood before giving Stiles a judging look. Stiles looked slightly to his right, sure that if he just didn’t look directly at Scott, he wouldn’t get a lecture.

            “You know, he would heal better than you,” Scott told him, turning his head even more to get at the abrasion on his cheekbone. “He’s a werewolf. Their whole planet is full of things that heal at the speed of light.”

            “I know,” Stiles said, the words muffled by Scott’s grip on his jaw.

            “And it’s not your job to protect him,” Scott continued. “In fact, it’s kind of  _his_ job to protect  _you_ , you know.”

            “I know,” Stiles said, tiredly. They had had this conversation a thousand times. Some part of him told him that maybe he should have learned something from the last 999 conversations, and yet-

            “That’s the whole entire reason Starfleet employs anyone from Lycan,” Scott said, pulling at Stiles’ arm and shifting around his torn shirt. “It’s the reason so many of them serve as security, and why so many of them take positions as first officers. To protect the captain and crew.”

            “I  _know_ ,” Stiles said, pulling his hand out of Scott’s grasp. “I know all of that, Scott. I just- I just don’t  _remember_ that when it’s a choice between him getting hurt or me getting hurt.” Scott’s face softened a little, and Stiles’ shoulder sagged. “I can’t lose him.”

            “You’re not going to lose him,” Scott told him gently. “But I can guarantee you that it hurts him worse to see you hurt, than it does for him to be injured in a fight.” When Stiles looked up, Scott met his gaze. “He can’t lose you either, you know.”

            Stiles smiled a little, heart giving a little flutter. “I know,” he said after a moment. He finally rolled his eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh. “Fine, okay. I’ll be more careful.”

            “Good,” Scott said, and took his arm again to finish treating him. “And maybe, I don’t know,  _tell him_.”

            Stiles gave a huff of laughter, but he did not disagree.


	119. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek Badass with Bat

            “ _Come on_!” Stiles shouted, slamming his bat against the ground before twirling it up into the air, blue and green light streaking off of it in long tendrils.

            The angel whipped around at the challenge, yellow eyes lighting up yellow as it opened its maw and shrieked back. Derek used the distraction to bring his feet up and kick hard enough to dislodge the creature, shifting to avoid the splurt of golden light that spilled from the gaping wound in its side. It scrabbled to its feet the same time as Derek, but Stiles shouted again, and it turned its attention away from the wolf.

            “That’s it,” Stiles coaxed, grinning now. “You know where the real threat is here.”

            The angel clawed forward, hackles rising, all six bone-and-feather wings opening to arch above it. Stiles spared them a glance, remembering the feathers had barbs that burrowed into skin. He stepped backward as the angel advanced, freeing up one hand to twist runes of light off his skin to act as a shield.

            “Pathetic,” the angel slurred. It had lost a lot of ether, but they knew from their earlier encounter with it that it would go until the last moment before slipping phases to heal. “I will tear your soul from your skin and bathe in your blood, mortal.”

            “I bet you say that to all the boys,” Stiles taunted, stopping dead to take a stand, his bat raised and rune magic crackling over his skin. He hoped it would be enough. He was vaguely aware of Derek a few yards away, recovering enough to rejoin the fight in a moment. They should have had more people. They had been on their way to get more people. “I’m not afraid of you. You’re weak.”

            “Weak!” it shrieked, and launched itself at him.

            So light headed he thought he might black out for a moment, Stiles swung. The runes etched into his bat lit up red as they connected with the twisted face of the angel, the magic flaring up and out, turning into claws. Stiles dragged the bat toward the ground, the magic gripping onto the angel’s face hauling it along with the motion. It scrabbled as it fell, one wing knocking into Stiles’ side, and Stiles gasped in pain as the runes soaked the damage and pulled on his life force to reform. He couldn’t take another hit like that.

            Luckily, he didn’t have to. The moment the angel was on the ground, flailing, Stiles heard a shout from behind him and then the rest of the pack was there, scrambling to grab limbs and get the angel under control. Stiles’ rune magic held it bound to this phase until Scott’s claws had torn open its chest cavity and removed the small sphere of power that kept it moving.

            The angel’s form fell still as Scott retreated, light-soaked sphere clutched to his chest, his skin smoking from contact with the burning, liquid light. Derek was there in the next instant, and Stiles collapsed to his knees, panting and shaking with adrenaline. He looked up, caught Derek’s eyes and then Scott’s.

            They had done it.


	120. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teen Wolf Sterek Exploring the Hale Vault

            “I want you to come with me.”

            That was how Derek had asked him, over breakfast Stiles had made for them, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee and eyes fixed on his plate. It had sounded brittle and sharp, and Stiles had treated it with respect instead of sarcasm so that neither of them would get hurt.

            “Where?”

            “The vault.”

            That was how they ended up here, standing just inside the door of the Hale family vault, in the belly of the high school together. Stiles had watched Derek slide his claws into the locking mechanism, watched the vault open up to him, recognizing the rightful bloodline necessary to get inside, but then Derek had just… stopped. Breathing too fast, too shallow, he was just standing there beside Stiles, staring at nothing.

            “Derek,” Stiles murmured softly, resting a hand on Derek’s shoulder. Though Derek flinched, he stayed put, his eyes clearing a little at the grounding contact. Stiles was glad he could still be an anchor. “We don’t have to do this right now.”

            “I want to,” Derek said, and Stiles knew that was only half a lie. Of course Derek wanted to see what was in here, to connect to pieces of his past, to reclaim any part of his lost family that he could. But he also knew how much Derek had been dreading it, since they had learned of the vault’s existence.

            “You don’t,” Stiles said, as neutral as he could make his voice go which, as it turned out, was not very neutral at all. “We can come back later, or I could collect the stuff to bring home.”

            “No,” Derek said instantly, reaching for Stiles’ arm without thinking. “No, we don’t know what any of it is, some of it might be traps, or cursed or-”

            “Okay, okay,” Stiles said, sliding his arm from Derek’s loosening grasp and taking his hand instead. “Okay. Then we’ll go in together.”

            Derek let out a shaky breath and straightened up, threading his fingers in Stiles’. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Together.”

            Stiles waited another moment, watching Derek closely, until Derek had finally gathered enough will to take a step forward. When he did, Stiles took it with him, and together they crossed the threshold into the vault.


	121. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alien; surprise; treasure chest

            “It- it’s actually a treasure chest,” Stiles said, staring at the wood and metal contraption before them. It was an honest-to-god pirate treasure chest.

            Beside him, Derek was just staring as well. Of course, the riddle they’d been left had said, expressly, that they would find a chest of treasure, but they had not really believed it meant a literal treasure chest. “It… it has to be a trap,” he concluded.

            Stiles kicked at the catch on the lid, to open it, and the cave lit up with the glittery reflection of their flashlights on hundreds of golden coins. “That’s a pretty expensive trap,” Stiles told him.

            “Only if it’s real,” Derek countered, but he reached down to poke at the gold, and it sounded real enough to Stiles, heavy and metallic. “Maybe it’s cursed?”

            “That does seem like it would fit our luck,” Stiles said, and plucked one of the pieces from the pule and then looked around, as if expecting a curse to suddenly appear. When nothing further happened, Stiles raised both his eyebrows at Derek. “Maybe not everything out there is bad?”

            “Does that really seem statistically likely, given everything we’ve encountered on Earth, that an alien would come here to be nice to us?” Derek asked, biting but not sharp. “Or does it seem more likely that it is somehow tricking us right now, even if we can’t tell how?”

            Stiles pretended to think about it for a second, and then said “Definitely a nice alien,” just to see the look on Derek’s face as he counted to Not Murdering Stiles.


	122. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> terek (obv): hurt/comfort, feeling alone, hugs.

            Stiles sat against the headboard of his bed, knees drawn up a little and a book open on his thighs that he was more staring blankly through than actually reading. His dad had gone to bed hours ago, and Scott had left before that, and his head still hurt, and his cheek, and his shoulder, and he couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw claws spread wide and an open maw coming for him again.

            Shivering, he scrunched himself even smaller on the bed, bunching the covers a little more tightly around himself. He hated feeling like this. He could hold his own in a fight. Had done so, on numerous occasions. But the wolves had all gone home with clean skin and would sleep without pain, and Stiles was left here to recover as best he could before the next big bad came knocking at their door.

            He was not angry with them for it, or even bitter, it was just that some nights the darkness pressed in too closely, too hard. He was alone with the sound of his own breathing, his heart in his ears with its beat a little too fast when the shadows moved.

            They had won. He was safe. He should feel safe.

            He didn’t.

            He just felt alone and, as much as he hated to admit it, anxious and afraid. Which was silly, he knew, or maybe not considering his life was full of so many unsafe things, but it was unreasonable at the moment. That didn’t stop the feeling.

            A sharp rap at the window startled him, and he just barely contained his shout because he realized it was Derek tapping at his window. “It’s unlocked,” he said, feeling worse for knowing that he should have locked it.

            Derek looked down and then up, and then laid his hands flat on the glass and slid the window open. In a second he was through it, closing it behind him, and then he stood there a moment, just looking at Stiles like this had somehow been Stiles’ idea. Like he was awaiting instruction.

            “I came to check on you,” Derek said, a little too fast.

            “I’m fine,” Stiles said, and even he could hear the tick of his heart speed up. “I mean, I’ll be fine in a few days.”

            “I’m sorry,” Derek told him, almost over the top of Stiles’ words. He looked down, jaw clenching for a second. “You shouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

            Stiles shrugged and then winced as pain flared in his shoulder. It was back in place now, but dislocation, he noted, hurt way more than it had any right to do. “That’s what happens when you’re a human running around with a pack of werewolves. It’s my choice.”

            “I know,” Derek said, and oddly enough, Stiles believed him. “You still shouldn’t have… I should have… Look, I’m gonna go. I just-”

            “Derek,” Stiles said, stopping him dead. Then he was out of words, so he just stared at Derek, heart pounding and breath a little too shallow to be good for him. He wanted to ask him to stay, he just couldn’t seem to force the words out of his closing throat.

            But Derek seemed to understand anyway, shoulders relaxing a little and expression softening as he crossed to the edge of Stiles’ bed. He stopped short, his knees against the edge. “Someone should keep an eye on you overnight,” he said softly.

            “Please,” Stiles breathed, not sure if he was agreeing or asking, but he desperately needed the company. Needed someone else in the room to keep him from chasing his thoughts in circles all night. “Stay.”

            With a nod, Derek knelt on the edge of the bed, slipping so that he could sit beside Stiles, raising one arm so Stiles could get closer. Stiles didn’t hesitate to scoot in, letting Derek drape his arm gently over his shoulders in an almost-embrace, broad palm finding Stiles’ skin. It was instant relief, the way Stiles’ pain lessened at the touch, and he finally relaxed for real.

            “Thank you,” Stiles managed to mumble, exhaustion hitting him hard now that his injuries were not talking over the top of his better senses.

            “Go to sleep,” Derek said, and that was the last thing Stiles’ remembered before the dark finally claimed him.


	123. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Stiles so convinced he’ll screw up a spell that he’s flailing and unable to focus to DO the thing, until Derek kisses him to distract him

_You can do this_ , he told himself, hands trembling as he traced off the first rune, light welling under his bloodied fingertips. The rune flared and then fizzled, misformed, and he tried again, willing his body to cooperate.  _You **have** to do this._

Without meaning to, his gaze flicked up to Derek, flat on his back and bleeding all over the darkened cement. His breath caught, his heart hammering in his chest as his vision went a little fuzzy with the rush of adrenaline and fear.

“Stiles,” Derek said, and it lacked his usual ire.

“I’m- I’m here,” Stiles replied quickly, scooting closer on his knees. “I’m  _trying_ , but I just…” He trailed off, not sure how to explain that he had done this a thousand times with Deaton, but never in the field. Never when it  _mattered_.

Shoving those thoughts aside, Stiles focused again on the runes on his skin, heart still too fast and his mind screaming his fears at him. Too much blood. Too many wounds. Not enough time. You’ve never combined runes before. You can’t.

He didn’t realize he had stopped, shaking too badly to do anything, until Derek laid a hand over his. When he looked up, he caught Derek’s pale gaze and everything seemed to slow down a little. Derek smiled, and tugged Stiles forward as he struggled halfway to a sitting position. Stiles closed his eyes as Derek’s lips pressed against his cheek, and then Derek flopped back to the ground with a pained grunt.

A kiss for luck. How many times had Derek done that while he was learning? This was new, but it was the same- another learning experience. Another challenge.

Stiles opened his eyes. He had stopped shaking.

“You’ve got this,” Derek mumbled. “C’mon.”

Stiles let out his breath and drew in another before slowly tracing over the first rune again. It lit green as he poured his will into it, wanting to heal, wanting to mend. It stayed when he drew it off his skin, shimmering and bright while he traced the second rune, and the third. He twined them together almost blindly.

“Derek,” he said loudly, and Derek’s eyes cracked open again, burning red as his body tried to heal through the effects of the infectious bites. At least he was still alive. At least Stiles still stood a chance at saving him.

Without further hesitation, Stiles pressed the rune set into the worst of the wounds, the light twisting and fragmenting before it began to seep outward, blurring the edges until it was a blanket of light instead. The wound consumed the light, the energy, the power of the rune and Stiles watched as it began to heal, finally. After a moment, the others began to follow suit, slowly but surely knitting back together.

Stiles slumped as soon as the last of the light had faded. Derek had still lost a lot of blood, and he would be weak for a while, but the worst of it was over. They were going to be okay.


	124. Isaac x Various

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These 5 parts were originally posted as separate ficlets, but I have combined them into one chapter since they occur in the same "universe." These were a result of my promise to write more about Isaac.

            He caught them on the couch in the basement, Erica with her feet stretched over Boyd’s lap, his palms soothing over her shins as they watched a movie. It was only a brief moment that Isaac marveled at the peacefulness of the situation, of how wonderful it was to see them at home. Their home, all of them, after they had put so much work into rebuilding it. After all the scowls from Derek and the complaining from Jackson. After all the ghosts of the past they’d had to confront before Derek would agree to let anyone else in.

            Smiling, he padded across the room, socked feet making barely a whisper against the plush carpet they’d installed a few months ago. When he reached the edge of the couch, Erica lifted her legs, allowed him to snuggle down between her and Boyd, stretched her legs out over both of them with a contented sigh.

            Boyd turned his head, shifted just the tiniest amount. Isaac bared his neck just so, just enough to let Boyd give him one good sniff. He smelled of pack and of Scott and of Allison, and Boyd seemed content with the knowledge of where Isaac had been, without having to ask. Isaac’s eyes flicked to the screen in front of them, noted that it was an old movie; not black and white, but old. Boyd liked old movies, which would explain why Erica was dozing.

            He let one of his hands run the length of Erica’s thigh as he leaned back into the comfortable couch, his other hand resting on her knee. It had been a long day, and he was glad to be home with his pack. Was infinitely thankful for moments like these, for every night he spent in freedom, surrounded by love.

            Erica’s fingers found his a moment later, though neither of them opened their eyes. He smiled, titled his head to lean on Boyd’s shoulder, and let himself relax to the rhythm of their heartbeats.

            Perfection.

* * *

 

 

            He might have bothered to knock, if he thought he was interrupting anything, but he could hear Stiles’ fingers clacking against the keys of the laptop, the slick hiss of Derek turning the pages of the book he was reading. So he just let himself in, pausing in the doorway so that the alpha had time to tell him to leave if he didn’t want the company. Derek didn’t so much as blink.

            Briefly he observed the pages Stiles was browsing, decided that they were homework, and settled for clambering gently onto the bed beside Derek. His alpha didn’t stop reading, but he did shift, make room for Isaac to stretch out beside him, hook his jaw over Derek’s shoulder so that he could read the pages in Derek’s hands. He could see Stiles watching them in the reflection of his computer screen, and he enjoyed the soft smile that graced the human’s lips.

            On some level he knew that Derek was still not used to people just getting close to him. He could feel the tension, however slight it was, smell the change in Derek’s comfort level. Smell that his tension wasn’t all nerves, though, and so he stayed, the length of his body resting just-so against Derek’s side. It was warm and comfortable and he even took the risk of rubbing his cheek softly over Derek’s shoulder after a few minutes, leaving his scent behind. Sometimes he felt bad for thinking it was good Stiles wasn’t a wolf, couldn’t smell Isaac on Derek later.

            Other times, he wished Stiles could.

            For a while Isaac tried to read what Derek was reading. It was a small book, faded, and Isaac had thought maybe it was something interesting, something from the archives of werewolf and other supernatural lore that had survived the fire. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t even close; it was a western novel, one with cowboys and campfires and cattle runs. The language was dry and made Isaac want to nod off into Derek’s shoulder.

            Eventually his half-asleep nods, his restless shifting beside Derek became too much for the alpha. Derek rocked away from him, freeing the arm pressed against Isaac’s side, and then bringing it down over Isaac’s shoulders. He wrapped the younger boy up, practically dragging him beneath him. Isaac squirmed until he was face up, trapped under Derek’s arm and shoulder, staring up with a completely unapologetic smile.

            “What?” he asked, though they both knew the answer.

            “You’re as bad as Stiles,” Derek growled, but it wasn’t a mean sound. It was the rough tone he used when he was exasperated but amused. Isaac might have called it joking, if it weren’t Derek. “Can’t you just sit still?”

            “I’m bored,” Isaac pleaded softly, like a puppy begging  _ _play with me.__

            Derek rolled his eyes and Stiles finally turned away from the computer screen. “You could come help me with this report,” he offered, his eyes meeting Derek’s for just long enough to offer him a ‘what can you do?’ shrug.

            Isaac debated for a moment, and then wriggled free of Derek. “I guess. Can’t be worse than what he’s reading.” The book hit him between the shoulder blades even as he laughed.

            “It’s about the stock market crash,” Stiles told him as he pulled up the second chair in the room, avoiding Derek as he retrieved the book. The human pushed a sheaf of papers his way. “Here’s what I have, so far. I still need two more  _ _pages__  of BS before I can turn it in.”

            The corner of Isaac’s lip twitched in disdain for the subject, but he rifled through the papers anyway, eyes skimming the data Stiles had printed, the double-spaced pages he had written. Eventually he put it down and settled for watching Stiles read instead. He loved watching Stiles learning. When he was really interested in something, his cheeks would flush along his jaw-line, making the couple of dark dots on his skin stand out.

            It wasn’t long before he gave in to the temptation, scooting closer and then reaching out one slender hand to stroke along the edge of Stiles’ jaw. The boy jumped a little, never taking his eyes from the screen, and then he was pressing into Isaac’s fingertips, just barely. Isaac smiled, scooted until the edge of his chair touched the edge of Stiles’ chair, until he could tuck his feet under Stiles’ thigh.

            Almost unconsciously Stiles held out his hand, ran his fingers once, absently, through Isaac’s hair as he read. Isaac tilted his head just enough that Stiles had to press back or let his hand be moved; he didn’t move it. Isaac sighed, folded one arm over his knees and rested his chin on his forearm. His eyes closed as Stiles’ hand dropped back to the edge of the chair.

            Isaac reached over with his free hand, curled it so that he could touch his knuckles to Stiles’ and that is how they sat. Knuckles touching, just breathing, Isaac’s eyes closed, Stiles’ open, with Derek on the bed behind them reading his old book and trying not to stare too openly at the boys occupying his room. It was so normal, so peaceful, that Isaac just… barely…. fell… asleep to the thought that this?

            Quiet, loving, intimate. This was how it should always be.

 

* * *

 

 

            The summer sun glittered in her strawberry-blonde hair in such fascinating ways, Isaac found he had difficulty looking anywhere else. The chirr of cicadas in the trees was making him sleepy, the heat of midsummer leeching into his bones. He felt like a cat in a sunbeam, curled up beside Lydia, his head in her lap. In the yard, Derek told Jackson ‘again’ and the two of them began to spar anew. He was torn between staring at Lydia’s gentle curls or the two shirtless werewolves battling it out only yards away. He closed his eyes, unwilling to make that decision.

            “You should stay the night,” he said softly. Her fingers threaded through his hair and he cracked his eyes open just enough to see her smile. “Both of you. It’s been a couple weeks, you know? I don’t know how Jackson does it… staying so far away from the pack. I would be lonely.”

            “He is,” Lydia tells him shortly, still stroking over his curls, leaning back on her other hand. Her eyes never left her mate’s form, and Isaac couldn’t blame her. Jackson was fluid and grace and muscle, and he always held himself just-so when he knew she was watching. Derek was going to break him of it, someday, if he kept letting Lydia stay for werewolf training; Jackson would get tired of being brained when Derek cuffed him over his divided attention.

            “We’re going to watch a movie tonight,” Isaac offered. “We didn’t let Boyd pick this time, I promise. Stiles brought over an action movie.” Isaac smiled. “You would think we’d be tired of action anything, but I guess it’s different when you’re not the one fighting.”

            Lydia rolled her eyes, shook her head a little. “He just likes listening to Derek critique them.” She changed her voice, deepening it in an impression of Derek. “You couldn’t block that kick like that. He didn’t even really hit him. I could put both of them on the floor if they’re going to move like that.”

            Isaac laughed, and it felt so good, so easy. It drew the attention of the two werewolves in the yard, who paused what they were doing. Derek cuffed Jackson on the side of the head, causing him to curse and make a half-hearted swipe at his alpha while holding the side of his head with his free hand. Derek dodged it easily, and moved to the side, began to move for the porch.

            “Take a break,” he told Jackson, a mutter Isaac picked up even if Lydia wouldn’t. “I’ll get us something to drink.”

            Jackson all but collapsed on the top step of the porch and Isaac lifted his legs so that the boy could scoot closer. No second invitation was needed, and Jackson slumped forward with his elbows on Isaac’s shins as they came to rest on his lap. “I don’t know how you stay here,” he huffed, running one hand through his damp hair. Isaac could smell the sweat glistening on his skin, and he appreciated the woodland scent.

            “He works you harder because you aren’t around as much,” Isaac pointed out lazily, closing his eyes again. “Maybe if you’d just stay…”

            Jackson’s laugh was addictive and Isaac opened his eyes long enough to catch the grin, the head shake that accompanied it. “You’re impossible.”

            “We could stay for the evening,” Lydia said offhand, her bright eyes on Jackson’s hands where they rested upon Isaac’s bare skin. Tilting his head back just enough to see her face, Isaac smiled hopefully. “For a movie. It’s not  _ _The Notebook__.”

            Jackson flushed and Isaac felt the heat of it where his hands rested on Isaac’s legs. “Yeah, I guess,” he agreed.

            Their attentions shifted as Derek exited the house, a glass of lemonade in each hand. He passed one to Jackson and one to Lydia, the former of whom drained half of it before Derek had time to grab the second two glasses from the stand just inside the front door. Isaac reached up to take his glass when Derek offered it, almost dropping it as the condensation slicked his hand.

            With his usual amount of style, Derek hop-stepped over Isaac and took a seat on the second step, leaning back so that he rested against Isaac’s hip. Isaac sighed contentedly and tried to figure out how to sip his drink without getting up, without losing contact. Derek didn’t have to turn around to guess his debate, and he let out a small, amused huff. “You are such an attention sponge.”

            Where Lydia hid her grin along the rim of her glass, Isaac didn’t bother. “So?” he asked, catching Jackson’s eyes but talking to Derek. “You weren’t complaining last night.”

            Jackson’s eyes closed as he tried to contain his snort of laughter, a smile blushing across his face. He was not used to seeing the affection the pack had earned, and it still embarrassed him sometimes. This was the boy who had not told his adopted parents he loved them since he learned of his past. The boy who couldn’t admit to his mate that he loved her to the ends of the earth and back, even though everyone knew it was true. The boy who, by subtle touches, gentle invitations, soft-spoken words, was learning to trust those who insisted on caring for him.

            Instead of acknowledging Isaac’s remark, Derek said: “You’re staying?” He tried to make it sound like it wasn’t completely obvious he was eavesdropping from the kitchen, but he wasn’t very good at pretending.

            “Just for a while,” Jackson said, and it seemed like maybe he meant the movie, or maybe he meant in general, but either way, Isaac was happy. Jackson was theirs, even if just for a while, and Isaac knew how to treasure the good things in life while they were in his hands.

            For now, he could revel in the feel of Lydia’s soft hand stroking over his curls, in the warmth of Jackson’s hand on his shin, the chill of Jackson’s lemonade where it rested against his skin. He would enjoy the song of summer the cicadas sang, the dry heat of the woods, and the protection of his Alpha at his hip, safeguarding them for every second of Jackson’s 'just a while.’

 

* * *

 

 

            The gentle knock at his door told him what he already knew; Scott had arrived to work on the chemistry project they’d been assigned. It should have been Stiles that Scott was paired with, except that their teacher was very busy teaching Stiles a lesson about how much more work he would get done if he wasn’t distracted by his best friend. Isaac had volunteered to take Stiles’ place, leaving Stiles to be paired with Erica. The thought made Isaac grin as he imagined Erica arriving at the sheriff’s house. She’d left earlier all dolled up and ready to torture Stiles for a few hours.

            “Come in,” he called softly, not bothering to get up from where he lay stretched on his bed, his arms folded along the bottom edge of the chemistry book. The pages lay open to the outline of the project.

            The gentle click of the door was overtaken by the sound of the television from the basement as the door opened, allowing in the previously muted noises. Scott slipped around the edge and closed it behind him, gave Isaac a small smile.

            “Sorry I’m late,” he apologized, setting his backpack on the floor. “Mom didn’t want to give up the keys.”

            “So she drove you here?” Isaac asked. He’d heard them talking in the car outside the house.

            Scott rolled his eyes. “She has a date,” he complained, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed. He looked over to Isaac, and smiled thinly. “I hope you don’t mind. I told her I could stay the night and just catch a ride to school in the morning.”

            Laughing, Isaac pushed himself up on his elbows, got his knees under him to sit. “It’s fine,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to be home for that either.”

            With an exasperated, embarrassed noise, Scott hit Isaac in the middle of the chest with the back of his hand. “Gross,” he said. “I don’t even want to think about it. It’s Stiles’  _ _dad__.”

            Isaac rolled his eyes. “So, practically already your dad? Are you mad your  _ _parents__  are going on a  _ _date__?” He grinned.

            Scott tilted his head, considering this. “Hn,” he concluded. “I guess I never thought of it like that.” Then he shook his head. “Ugh, whatever. Chem project?” He reached down, unzipped his backpack, and began to pull out notes.

            Kneeling, his long hands balled atop his thighs, Isaac watched Scott, head tilted slightly to the side with curiosity. “Straight to business?” he asked softly, and was rewarded when Scott’s heartbeat quickened.

            “We haven’t even started,” Scott pointed out, glancing sidelong at Isaac.

            The boy shrugged, a languid motion that rolled through him. “It’s not due until the end of the week,” he stated simply, his blue eyes bright as they traced all the way down Scott’s form, then back up to meet his eyes. He smiled, not showing his teeth. “And you hardly ever spend the night.”

            Scott raised one eyebrow, watched as Isaac leaned forward, closed the chemistry book, and tipped it over the foot of the bed. It hit the floor with a resounding clunk, and then Isaac was in Scott’s space, his nose pressed against the nape of his neck, his breath hot on Scott’s skin. He stayed like that a moment, just breathing in Scott’s scent, listening to the flutter of Scott’s heart.

            “Isaac,” Scott murmured, and it was very nearly a plea. He didn’t miss the way Isaac’s breath caught, the beat his heart skipped. He liked when Scott said his name like that. “Come on.”

            For a moment Scott thought that Isaac might acquiesce, that he might draw away and pick up the chem book, might lay back against the headboard and get started on the project. The moment passed when Isaac snaked a strong arm around his middle, toppled him backward onto the bed, wrapped himself around Scott with arms and legs. Though he could have resisted, could have stopped him, Scott let him, allowed himself to be caught up in Isaac’s affection. Took a deep breath, eyes closed, and wrapped his hands around Isaac’s wrists where they met over his chest.

            “You’re impossible,” he told the other werewolf, but the amusement in his voice softened the accusation. “We have a lot of work to do.”

            Isaac snorted into his hair, then rested his chin atop Scott’s head to speak. “You can spare a few minutes,” he said. “You owe me after last week.”

           Scott considered telling Isaac he didn’t owe him anything, but he did feel bad about the way he had left Isaac hanging, after promising to meet him at the library to help him on an English report. He’d completely forgotten, eaten lunch with Stiles instead. It wasn’t until Isaac had cornered him after school on the way to Lacrosse practice that he’d realized anything was amiss.

            “I said I was sorry,” he pointed out, lips brushing over the skin of Isaac’s forearm as he spoke.

            Isaac shifted, let Scott go for only long enough to move from behind him, long enough to move so that he had one knee on either side of Scott’s hips, his palms flat on either side of Scott’s head. Scott allowed it, watched Isaac’s eyes as they traced over the lines of his face, crawled back up to meet Scott’s gaze. A smile quirked Isaac’s lips.

            “What if I want a different apology?” he asked quietly.

            “Like not starting our project?” Scott asked with resignation, although he was not doing a very good job of hiding his smile.

            Isaac cocked his head, considering the option. “Ok, we can start the project,” he agreed after a moment. Then he was leaning down to press his lips to Scott’s, to press the length of his lean body down until there was no space between them. Scott’s fingers flew up as if to steady him, pressed into his hips until Isaac drew back from the kiss, moved so that his lips brushed Scott’s ear. “And I’m going to drive you crazy the entire time.”

            He felt the way Scott swallowed at the proposition, and he rolled his hips against Scott’s once before hopping off of the bed and scooping up his chemistry book from the floor. He flashed a brilliant grin to Scott, who groaned and hit his head back against the mattress in defeat.

            Isaac’s grin softened when Scott wasn’t looking. He was glad Scott was staying for once, glad that Scott ever stayed with the pack despite that he could leave at any time if he chose. He had the ability to become an alpha. To start his own pack. Isaac might even follow him if he did. But for now, he belonged to this pack and at least a part of him belonged to Isaac… and he intended to treasure that part as long as possible.

            Starting with tonight.

 

* * *

 

            Isaac knocked tentatively at the door, heard the ‘go away’ that was mumbled into a pillow within the room. Sighing, he tested the door and found it was unlocked. Inside it was dark, but he could easily make out Peter, stretched out atop his bed, face buried in his pillow. He didn’t move when Isaac entered, when he shut the door behind himself. Instead of stepping into the room, Isaac stood by the door, just waiting.

            Finally, Peter looked over to him, to see what he was doing even though it was clear he was doing nothing. He looked  _ _wrecked.__ Isaac took a deep breath, let it out slowly, feeling awful for Peter.

            Earlier that day, Peter had just… broken. He had been arguing with Scott and then suddenly they were fighting, actually fighting, with claws and snarls and blood. Derek intervened instantly but not only had Peter not backed down, he had challenged Derek outright. They had fought, viciously, in ways Isaac knew only born werewolves really could, until Derek had Peter laid flat on his back, one clawed hand at his throat, the other swept back ready to strike a death blow.

            Thankfully, Peter had chosen that moment to tip his head back, to bare his throat and avert his eyes from Derek’s. He had submitted with a whimper that brought Derek back down from the rage of a challenged Alpha. Derek had turned to the others, to Isaac and Scott, Boyd and Erica, and all four of them had instinctively mimicked Peter, tilting their heads to bare their necks. Even Scott, who might not have if he hadn’t just seen Derek fight almost to the death.

            It was only when his entire pack had reaffirmed his leadership that he released his uncle. Peter had choked, gagged on the way his windpipe was crushed, until it had healed enough for him to breathe properly. The first words from his mouth were: “You fight like your father.”

            Derek didn’t kick him out of the pack, although he would have been within his rights to do so. Peter had nursed his wounds the rest of the day, staying away from the pack except the one time he’d come down long enough to grab food. Isaac had watched him, watched his entire journey into and out of the kitchen. The passing glance that Peter gave back was nothing short of heart breaking.

            Because the fight, Isaac knew, had been about the past. It had been about Peter’s family, and about the fire. It had been about how different things were now, and what a hard time Peter was having adjusting to being a beta again, to an alpha younger than him. To the son of his sister, who had been taken from him in the fire. Everyone had been taken from him.

            Isaac knew how that felt, to not have anyone. It was a distant memory now, getting more distant with every day that passed in the pack. But he remembered.

            He remembered what it felt like to have no one to turn to, no one to talk to, no one that cared. He remembered the night they had received the phone call that his brother had been killed in action; that night he had lost his brother, but also his father, in a way. That night he’d begun to learn what solitude meant. And he hated it.

            He couldn’t fathom being stuck inside of his own head for 6 years, with no outside contact. To return to himself only to find out that he had done horrible things to his own family, to his niece. To feel the raw, soul-deep power of being an alpha unexpectedly, and how deep his need for revenge must have run. To be killed by your own nephew, brought back by a human, to become the beta at the edge of the pack that no one really trusted, no one wanted to talk to, with no one to listen to him when he hurt.

            So Isaac was here now. Standing in Peter’s doorway, meeting his eyes, and waiting.

            “You shouldn’t be here right now,” Peter told him.

            Isaac pursed his lips for a moment, shifted from one foot to the other. At last he moved into the room, hesitated as Peter sat up, put his back to the wall. Then Isaac was climbing onto the bed, taking a seat beside Peter, ignoring the way the other wolf tensed tight enough to snap. He just sat beside him, back against the wall as well, shoulder just touching Peter’s.

            It was a while before Peter relaxed, long enough that Isaac’s head had dropped back against the wall, eyes sliding shut in half-sleep. It was peaceful, even if it was uncomfortable at first. Neither of them had spoken, although there were plenty of protests and excuses roaming their minds.

            “What are you even doing here?” Peter finally asked, sounding more defeated than when Derek had put him down.

            “You’re pack,” Isaac said, as if that should explain everything. “We’re supposed to look out for one another.”

            “I can look out for myself,” Peter told him.

            Isaac leaned closer, pressing his warm shoulder into Peter until Peter pressed back to keep from falling over. “You can. But you don't _have_ to. Sometimes it’s nice to have a shoulder to lean on,” Isaac replied softly.

            Peter laid his cheek on the top of Isaac’s head, because it was close enough, because it felt good, because he had missed being this close to someone. Anyone. He swallowed, trying to rid himself of the lump that had clawed up into his throat. It just felt so  _ _good__.

            The way that Isaac’s fingers threaded into his was not what broke him. The gentle way his packmate ran his thumb over Peter’s fingers was not what brought forth all of the pent up grief. Instead, it was the gentle whisper, barely a breath, that just said “It’s ok, Peter.”

            Nothing had been “ok” for Peter in a very long time.

            He just began talking, quietly, fingers roaming through and over and under Isaac’s as a way to distract himself from everything he was sharing. The family he had. The loss he had suffered. The crushing loneliness of being imprisoned in his own mind. He spoke of better times, told Isaac of the golden summers he had spent at this house as a child, the chilly winters spent under blanket forts with his brother.

            He just spoke, and Isaac just listened, until there were no more words. Isaac would later deny how his hair was slightly damp, would ignore that his own eyes were probably a little red, would be sore in the morning from helping to share the grief.

            In the end, that is how they fell asleep, curled up next to one another against the wall of Peter’s room, hands twined. That is how Derek found them in the morning when he came to bring Peter breakfast and perhaps to apologize. Instead, he smiled softly, set down the pair of muffins on their clean white plate, and closed the door as he left.

            Perhaps the pack would be all right after all.

 


	125. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Suaine's 500th post request for beautiful things. Suaine, if you by some miracle see this, pop me a note, I miss you.

            Sometimes Stiles can get away with petting Derek.

            He doesn’t call it petting; he doesn’t call it anything, so that Derek’s attention is never drawn to it. Instead, as the early morning sunbeams catch on sparkles of dust, fall softly across Derek’s bare chest, Stiles will silently reach over, run a feather light touch over Derek’s head. Card his long fingers through Derek’s dark hair, watching intently, memorizing the look, the feel of this privilege. Derek doesn’t stir, has never told Stiles to cut it out even though sometimes Stiles has looked down to find Derek’s pale eyes just staring at him, as if he were some sort of hazy dream Derek couldn’t quite believe. Those times Stiles will quirk his lips in half a smile, run his hand through Derek’s hair once more so that he can swoop the motion down, cradle Derek’s jaw enough to pull him into a gentle morning kiss.

            Then he’ll slip from their bed, bare feet and hassled looking boxers, the promise of breakfast falling from his lips. He doesn’t miss the way that Derek watches him as he skirts the bed, how he rolls over to continue watching as Stiles exits.

            He doesn’t miss the way that, on those days, he falls asleep those nights to the feel of Derek’s palm running softly over his peach-fuzz haircut. He doesn’t say anything, but Stiles kind of thinks that nothing needs to be said anyway.


	126. Derek x Stiles + Pack Feels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based off of Suaine's post regarding [Derek's Living Spaces](http://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/34566682962/derek-hales-living-space).

            The first Saturday after Stiles found out where the pack moved, he turned up while everyone was still asleep. The storm doors Boyd fixed over the entryway were closed but not locked, so Stiles just let himself in without knocking. No one was there to greet him but he couldn’t blame them, really. He was out with Isaac and Erica and Boyd late the night before, and when he drove them home Derek still hadn’t returned. So he found a level surface, set down the paper bag he carried in one hand, and the small pot in the other.

            The place was… overgrown. Ivy, the kind his mother had always wanted to grow up the side of their house but never planted, spilled over the edges of the growing tables. It had sneaked in through cracks in the clear panes that were once walls, seeping life into the inside of the abandoned greenhouse. He could see other plants sprouting from beneath the ivy; a couple of tiny raspberry plants, some kind of decorative shrub that tipped off the table and rooted in the dirt floor.

            He threw a glance around, found a branch with many offshoots, and began to use it to sweep away some of the piles of leaves that had blown in over the years, before Boyd fixed the door and shut them out. Some parts of the floor were cement, some dirt, some the crumbling, chunky remains of old pavement. For a time the steady scrape of his branch against the floor filled the silence, enough that he startled and almost tripped over himself when he realized he was being watched.

            Derek stood in the doorway to the back room, loose sweat pants hanging around his hips, his arms folded across his bare chest. His pale eyes were fixed upon Stiles, then shifted back to behind him, to where Stiles had left the paper bag and the small red pot. Stiles’ gaze followed, and he took a quick, fortifying breath.

            “I brought breakfast,” he said, raising his chin to show he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

            “We don’t have power yet,” Derek said, voice thick with sleep. Stiles noticed then how he wasn’t quite opening his eyes all the way, realized his sweeping must have awoken the werewolf.

            “Isaac told me,” he said. “It’s fruit and bagels.”

            Derek’s eyes flickered over him, and then back to the offering. “What’s in the pot?”

            Stiles glanced back as if he’d forgotten, and then his face lit up in a smile. “It’s a baby tomato plant!” he said, turning that smile upon Derek. “Since, you know… you’re living in a greenhouse.” He didn’t say out loud that he really had the best mental images of big scary werewolves tending cute little gardens, but he certainly did have them.

            It was awkward, standing there in what amounted to Derek’s family room, waiting for him to say something about the way Stiles just appeared, intruding upon his life. But he was friends with Boyd and Erica, team mates with Isaac in ways that made him hope they were also friends. These people were Scott’s link to what was happening to him, especially now that Allison had backed away from him. So he was going to visit, and he was going to keep that link alive; if not for himself, then for Scott’s sake, because they  _needed_  the sort of information Derek had. So he stood his ground, and eventually Derek pushed himself away from the door frame.

            “Thanks,” he said quietly. “I’ll wake the others.”

            Stiles let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and watched Derek disappear back into the darkness.

            While the breakfast was ok, it was awkward, and Peter arrived in time to help them finish, which didn’t make it less awkward when he never stopped staring at Stiles. But if it wasn’t everything Stiles had hoped it would be, it was a start. It was the spark that began the pattern of renewal, the precedent for when Erica brought home a flat of vegetable plants and Boyd spent the afternoon helping her rip ivy out of the seams of their new home. It was what made it okay when Isaac left a potted pair of blueberry bushes in Derek’s bed; maybe the reason Derek planted them in the middle of the night instead of throwing them away. No one said a word the day Peter planted eleven tiny rose bushes with names that only meant things to him and Derek, but the betas all took turns watering them.

            So at the end of the summer, on the last weekend before school would begin again, Stiles was not surprised to turn up with breakfast to find a greenhouse full of life, to see that the pack had discovered within itself a way to heal and grow and become closer. He wasn’t sure when he had started showing up for himself, just because he wanted to see them, rather than having business, but he decided not to dwell upon it too closely. Instead he passed the paper bag to Boyd, and held out the potted strawberry plant to Erica, and accepted the slow, quiet smile from Derek.

            “Thank you,” he said, and Stiles just smiled.


	127. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ficlet I drabbled at work to hurt Chasing.

            Stiles startled awake to the sound of his room door being opened. Yellow light poured in like a sword’s edge, cutting a beam across the dark carpet. A moment later it vanished, devoured by Scott’s silhouette as he poked his head in through the crack. He couldn’t fathom why his best friend would be waking him up at three in the morning when he knew they had to be up early the next day, until he heard the grate of car wheels on the drive.

            “Stiles,” Scott prompted, because Stiles was looking awfully inclined to just stay beneath the warm, heavy covers.

            “I know,” he responded tiredly. “Look I’ll… I’ll deal with it okay? Perfect fucking timing as always.”

            Scott snorted because he didn’t want to laugh at such a sharp reminder, and then retreated, clicking the door shut behind himself. Stiles groaned and tossed off his covers, grabbed a pair of red sweatpants from the floor and pulled them on hastily. Out of habit he grabbed the baseball bat propped against the wall between the bed and the nightstand. He wouldn’t need it. Probably.

            At the bottom of the stairs Stiles waited for a knock that never came. The door handle jiggled and the scrabble of a key against metal echoed around the entryway and then stopped. Stiles forced himself to just keep breathing, wait just a moment to steel his nerves. It didn’t take him long to realize there was no amount of mental preparation that would be sufficient, and so he opened the door, bat at the ready.

            “Stiles!” Derek exclaimed, eyes flickering over the weapon in his hands. “What are you doing here?”

            Stiles scowled, lowered the bat until it clunked on the floor. “That’s it?” he asked. Derek appeared to be at a loss for words, but Stiles had more than a few choice ones for him. “You’re just going to turn up here and have the nerve to ask what  **I**  am doing here? I belong here. And so did you.”

            “Stiles, I-” Derek began.

            “Three  _years_ , Derek,” Stiles cut him off. “You left  _three years_  ago. You didn’t call, you didn’t write, you didn’t even fucking  _text_  one of us. Not  _once_. I should be the one asking what you’re doing here.”

            “It’s my house, Stiles,” Derek told him. “Even if you changed the locks.”

            “We had to change the fucking locks,” Stiles spat angrily. “We changed them last winter when a particularly nasty visitor turned the front door into firewood.”

            “Visitor?” Derek said urgently, concerned. “Are you okay?”

            “Am I- Do you think I look okay, Derek?” Stiles asked, as much an accusation as a question. “When you disappeared chasing off Deucalion, I was the only one that knew that even if you survived - and there was a good chance you wouldn’t - you  _weren’t coming back_. I had to convince everyone else you were  _dead_  because it would have crushed them to think you just fucking abandoned them like you did me. I had to stand by Scott when he ended up with  _your_  responsibility. I watched my best friend suffer panic attacks like I used to, when he realized he had to take over the pack to survive. Peter nearly killed him - twice. And the whole time? The whole time I’m barely holding it together trying to get over you. But you know what?” he asked, slowing down to take a breath. “I did it. I got over you.”

            His gaze dropped even as he said it, because he knew Derek could hear his heart quicken. They both knew it was a lie. Stiles rolled his eyes and sighed.

            “Fine, I should have,” he said sharply. “But I’m not.”

            “You’re not?” Derek said softly.

            “Of course I’m fucking not,” Stiles snarled. “You tore my fucking heart out, Derek. You were my first time, and you just disappeared.”

            Derek tensed, head lifting back in surprise. “You never said-”

            Stiles made a rough noise of contempt in the back of his throat. “Because you were already freaked out. ‘You’re too young, Stiles,’” he mimicked. “'You’re human, Stiles.’ It wasn’t  _my_  hang-ups that ruined us.”

            “We fell apart-”

            “No, Derek. 'Take care of them’ is not the sound of falling apart. That’s a break up. You  _broke_  us. You  _left_.”

            “I had to-”

            “No, you didn’t,” Stiles countered. “You had a choice. You could have come back.”

            Derek had nothing to say to that because Stiles was right. He could have. So he just stood there in the doorway to his own home, feeling like a stranger, grasping for any possible way to rectify the situation. Finally Stiles let him off the hook and sighed again.

            “Nothing is the same anymore, Derek. If you want to come back, you’ll have to start over. You don’t get to come back like nothing happened. You don’t get to pick up where you left off. We’ve been through too much shit for that. The place you left doesn’t exist anymore. Neither do the people.”

            “Not even you?” Derek murmured.

            “ _Especially_ me,” Stiles told him, looking down, away. “This is  _my_  pack now.”

            “It was your pack before,” Derek reminded him, not quite catching the inflection.

            “Not like this,” Stiles told him and when he looked up the warm, golden-brown of his eyes had changed to a bright, rusty red. “You told me to take care of the others, so I did. Because they were yours. Because they were what I had left of you.”


	128. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Technically underage touching.
> 
> A drabble for myself.

            Stiles was seventeen the first time Derek slid his rough hands up along his bare sides, ghosting them reverently over the lines of Stiles’ ribs. Derek remembered the moment, remembered the constellations of beauty marks upon his pale skin, the shaking nervous breath that flexed Stiles’ chest beneath his hands. He remembered the way Stiles had looked at him, heart fluttering like a bird in a cage, waiting because Derek had stopped.

            Because when he touched Stiles, when he smoothed his hands up Stiles’ sides, all he could feel was the glide of Kate’s hands over his own ribs, the feel of her tongue licking from belly to chest, and he had frozen. He couldn’t do that, he couldn’t be Kate, couldn’t fathom corrupting the teen straddled under him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, not past the fear, the panic.

            It was the cool touch of Stiles’ hands upon his that drew him back to the moment. Their eyes met and Stiles knew. Derek had told him, because there was no way he could have kept Kate away from Stiles no matter how much he didn’t deserve the burden of that knowledge. He did deserve to know what he was getting in to, how Derek had been damaged. Derek had  _had_  to give him that chance to leave.

            “Hey,” Stiles murmured, fingers curling around the edges of Derek’s hands. The concern in his eyes was nearly crushing but his voice was firm. “You’re not Kate, Derek.”  _You won’t hurt me._  “I’m not Kate either,” he added. “Kate’s dead. She’s not coming back to get you. Not either of us, okay?”

            Derek had nodded and then leaned down, pressed warm lips to Stiles’. That was the first night he had hesitantly let go of the demons in his past, let Stiles chase them away with warm words and heated touches. The first night he had let Stiles into those haunted spaces, and begun to heal.

            Stiles was only seventeen the night he saved Derek from himself.


	129. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based off of this [Tumblr wish prompt](http://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/59343186004).

            The light was too bright when Derek first opened his eyes, so he squinted them shut and groaned. He wasn’t at the loft, that much was for sure. Everything around him was white, or shades of white, or that horrible pale blue-green that suffused every hospital he’d ever been to. There was a dully beeping noise off to his left, almost silent, and everything else was muffled. Something was horribly wrong; he felt like someone had wrapped all of his senses in cotton.

            Something stirred in the chair to his right, and the soft “Derek?” that spilled out in a familiar voice gave him the strength to chance cracking open his eyes again.

            It felt like someone had stripped his throat raw when he tried to speak, but he forced words past his lips anyway. “Stiles? What- where are we?”

            The last thing he remembered was getting into the car with Cora. She was talking about… he scraped at his memory, trying to dredge up what she had been telling him, but all he came up with was a blackness that oozed into everything else so that he felt dizzy with it.

            “You were in a car wreck,” Stiles told him gently, getting to his feet and moving around the end of the bed to get to Derek’s other side, closer to the door. He pressed a button on the bed before leaning over and smoothing Derek’s hair off his forehead. “A pretty bad one, Derek.”

            “I was… Cora,” he realized, trying to sit up. Stiles stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder, and he shouldn’t have been able to press Derek back onto the bed, but he did. He felt so weak. “Is Cora okay?”

            “She’s fine,” Stiles assured him. “We didn’t… no one was sure you would be, though.”

            “I’ll heal,” Derek told him, allowing a little bit of disdain into his tone. “I can still heal even as a beta, you know.”

            “A what?” Stiles asked, tipping his head, concern flooding his features.

            Derek gave him a funny look, because he’d  _ _told__  Stiles that. In staring at Stiles, he realized- “Why are you dressed like that?”

            Looking down, Stiles took in his Deputy uniform, slightly wrinkled as if he had slept in that hospital chair overnight. He shifted uncomfortably, letting out an apprehensive breath. “They’ve been letting me stay after work,” Stiles admitted. “My dad’s been dropping by our place to take care of Duke.”

            “What?” Derek exclaimed, panic coursing through him as he tried to sit up again. A nurse appeared in the doorway, and Derek’s eyes widened. He pressed on the wild part of himself, willing forth the wolf within, because Erica was standing there, alive. “Who are you?” he demanded, even as he realized that his features hadn’t changed, his hands were still soft and human. “What-”

            Stiles laid a hand on his shoulder, pressing him back, and trading a worried glance with Erica. “Sir, please calm down,” she told him smartly, moving over to the side of the bed. Stiles moved out of her way, back to the other side of the bed. He scrubbed his hand over his face the same way the Sheriff did when things were getting to be just a bit too much. “I need you to tell me what you remember,” she intoned, pulling a penlight from her pocket and reaching out touch him.

            He grabbed her forearm. “You’re dead,” he told her, watching her eyes widen a little as she gave him a very calculated  _ _excuse you?__  look. “I carried your dead body into the woods, and I buried you next to my sister. Who are you?”

            “Derek,” Stiles chided from beside him, reaching over to pry his fingers off of Erica. “You can’t just assault the nice and incredibly lenient nurses. Your sisters are fine.”

            “Sisters?” Derek’s attention snapped to Stiles now. “Stiles,  _ _what is going on__.”

            Stiles sighed, and Erica gave him a helpless little shrug. “They said this might happen. He did take a heavy hit to the head when the airbag went off.”

            “Okay,” Stiles agreed, looking for all the world like he was trying desperately to take this all in stride. “Derek, can you tell us what you remember? Before the crash?”

            “I remember getting into the car with Cora, and she was talking to me… and then nothing,” Derek told them, bewilderment creeping in around the edges.

            “And before that?”

            “We…” Derek gripped onto the memories, but there was something off about them. It felt like someone had been toying with them, leaving behind the faint blue glow of alpha-stolen memories. “I fought Deucalion. Scott was there, helping him. They wanted to kill Jennifer.”

            “Our landlady?” Stiles asked, confused.

            Derek gave him a look like he’d completely lost his mind. “No, the Darach.”

            “So… okay.” Stiles took a deep breath and shook his head a little. “I’m going to reserve questions about why you were fighting our dog and our vet for later. Go on.”

            It was hazy now, and Derek could feel his heart clawing up his throat. “I don’t understand…”

            “Just keep going,” Stiles pleaded gently. “What else do you remember?”

            Derek’s eyes closed and he touched upon the weird, glistening memories. “Uh… we… we’d been hunting for the Darach because she’d been murdering people. She tried to murder you. She almost murdered Isaac and Boyd and Scott.”

            “And before that?” Stiles asked, exchanging a worried look with Erica.

            “Deucalion took Erica and Boyd prisoner. Isaac and I spent all summer looking for them, but we didn’t find them until it was too late.” He looked to Erica then, throat tight. “We were too late to save you. I’m so sorry.”

            “I’m okay,” she assured him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Boyd’s okay too, you know. We’ve been watching over you for the past three weeks. He’s going to be sad I won the bet on who’d be on duty when you woke up.”

            “Boyd’s… alive?” Derek asked, voice breaking over the words. “I don’t understand… please.”

            “Is he okay?” Stiles asked Erica.

            She gave him a one-shouldered shrug. “He’s been okay, Stiles. Except for being out. I’ll let Dr. Deaton know that he’s awake.”

            “Thank you,” Stiles said, watching as she slipped out of the room and left them alone. Then he promptly crawled into the bed beside Derek, who was far too surprised to stop him. “Scoot, big guy.”

            Derek did, making room for Stiles, who all but curled into him, pressing their foreheads together. Panic rose in Derek’s chest and everything within him screamed  _ _not Stiles__.

            “I think you had a bad dream,” Stiles said softly, thumb brushing over Derek’s cheek. “A really bad dream, it sounds like.”

            For a moment, Derek couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but listen to every protest screaming around in his head. It wasn’t a dream that Erica was dead, or Boyd. It wasn’t a dream that he only had one sister left. It wasn’t a dream that Jennifer had attacked them, or Deucalion. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

            He wasn’t that lucky.

            “Stiles,” Derek croaked, unable to draw a proper breath through the tightness in his chest. “It wasn’t a dream.”

            “It was,” Stiles reassured him, touching their noses. After all the times Derek had wished for something so simple, so  _ _right__  with Stiles, the motion was so intimate and easy that it hurt. “Erica and Boyd are fine. They’re your nurses- well, and Isaac too. Deucalion is our wolfhound. You call him Duke, and it’s disgusting how cute you two are together. He never fights with Scott, the vet you were infatuated with before I came back to town. Any of this ringing a bell?”

            Derek shook his head a little. “It’s playing Twilight Zone music,” he said dryly.

            Stiles chuckled and shoved at his shoulder. “Nerd,” he accused, though affection colored the name. “Anything else you aren’t sure about?”

            “You said my sisters were fine?” Derek asked softly, fear coiling up around him, cold and heavy.

            “Yep,” Stiles confirmed. “You swerved the car to protect Cora, and she walked away from the accident. Laura wasn’t with you, but I promise she calls every morning before work to check on you.”

            “She doesn’t visit?” Derek asked, not sure what was harder to wrap his head around; that Laura was alive or that Laura was avoiding him.

            But Stiles was laughing, breathy and real. “Considering she lives in New York? No, Derek. She flew over the first day, to make sure your parents were okay. You know, cook some meals or whatever people do when their kid’s in the hospital. They visit,” Stiles pointed out cheerfully. “Someone, every day.”

            “My parents…” Derek breathed, pulling back to look at Stiles. “They’re alive? Who else?”

            Stiles gave him an odd look. “Like everyone?”  Stiles rolled his eyes when Derek gave him a look. “I don’t know your entire family tree, Derek. Like, everyone.” Stiles pointed. “Do you remember the family reunion?” He sounded afraid to hope.

            “There was still a reunion?” Derek asked. “I… there was a reunion. Almost everyone was there.”

            “Well,” Stiles continued. “Then all of them are fine. They called in to have us find you, after you left to pick up Cora and didn’t come back.” His voice dropped, a little tremble creeping in. “I- I was the one that found you, t-boned on the side of the road. We got Cora awake, and she said there was a deer, and the other car swerved first. The ice got you both.”

            “The other car?” Derek asked immediately. “Were they okay?”

            “Yeah,” Stiles assured him, smoothing his hand over the side of Derek’s neck. Derek sank into the comfort, eyes fluttering closed. He hated that it was  _ _this__  world that felt like the dream. He was glad the sensation was fading with every touch Stiles gave, strange old memories surfacing groggily. “It was a family. They came to visit, you know. Kali and her husband Ennis. Their little twins brought you flowers.”

            “I don’t remember,” Derek admitted. It felt good though. They obviously were not alphas here. They were okay.

            Stiles chuckled. “You were out the whole time. They all talked to you, though. Wished you well. Which, I guess, was better than what your crazy uncle did.”

            “Peter?” Derek questioned, opening his eyes. “He’s… still crazy then.”

            “Super crazy,” Stiles confirmed with a little nod. “He didn’t come in from San Fran for the reunion, but when your mom called him to tell him what happened, he volunteered to come hunt down the deer for revenge.”

            For a moment Derek had to sit and determine if Stiles was telling the truth, or if reality was sliding sideways and he was about to be plunged back into the horrifying world he was being told was just a dream. But Stiles was just waiting patiently for him to ask any more questions. So he took a deep breath, and accepted the knowledge.

            “And uh… we still live in… Beacon Hills?” Derek asked tentatively.

            At that, Stiles outright laughed, enough that he had to sit up or choke on his own tongue, and then he was kissing Derek, hands on either side of his face, noses smushed together. It wasn’t graceful or gentle or rough, but it was  _ _happy__  and it was  _ _loving__  and Derek had  _ _absolutely no idea__ what to make of it.

            When Stiles pulled back, Derek just stared at him, taking in the huge smile and the warmth in his eyes. “Oh my god I love you. No, Derek, we are not living in our high school. We live in L.A.” He nudged Derek’s nose with his own. “Together,” he added as if he already could tell Derek didn’t know. “And you’re usually a lot better at kissing. Amongst other things.”

            Derek swallowed. “I think… you’re going to have to remind me,” he said quietly, even though the familiarity of Stiles’ touch was sinking into him, even if fuzzy memories of his lips, of his skin, of his smile, were all slinking around just out of reach in the wake of the kiss.

            “I will,” Stiles promised, nuzzling back down into Derek’s space. “Every day, if I have to. I promised you once before that I’d stay, in sickness and in health, and I meant it, Derek.”

            Startled, Derek brought his hands up and stared at them. Stiles chuckled and held up his own left hand between them. A thin gold band circled his ring finger. “What…?”

            “They took yours off when they were running tests,” Stiles explained. “It’s safe though. You’ll get it back, promise, or we’ll really raise some hell. I worked too hard to get you to say yes to me.”

            For a moment, it was all Derek could do to just breathe, just grasp onto Stiles’ hand and  _ _breathe__. Then his eyes were sliding closed and he pressed his forehead to Stiles so that no one could see the shine prickling at his eyes. “Stiles?” he whispered, knowing his voice sounded tight. He didn’t care.

            Stiles hummed his response, waiting.

            “I loved you,” Derek confessed. “Even… there. In the- the dream. Everything was so different but I- but I still loved you.”

            “I know,” Stiles assured him, smiling.

            “You know?” Derek questioned. “How could you-”

            “Because,” Stiles told him, interrupting. “Because I know there’s no world out there where you don’t love me. And whoever I was there, I guarantee you… I loved you too.”

            Derek swallowed whatever response he might have made to that, and relaxed into Stiles. The nightmare was finally, finally over.


	130. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Off the Record: Stiles isn’t about to let Derek walk out of his life without saying goodbye.

            He expected the knock on the door, of course. When he told Scott - only Scott - that he was leaving, he knew the knock was inevitable. Everything he needed was packed, already in the car. Cora was due home tomorrow morning from wherever she had taken off to; he suspected their old house, but he wasn’t going to pry. He’d done enough mourning there to know she wouldn’t appreciate the intrusion. The only thing left was the knock on his door.

            “Derek!” His name filtered through the metal door, tinny and furious. He sighed, crossing the loft to unlock the door.

            Stiles was shimmying through it before Derek had even prised it all the way open, shoving at Derek until they were both well within the bounds of the apartment. “Stiles!” Derek reprimanded, catching his forearms.

            “So, what? You were just going to leave?” Derek could hear his heartbeat racing. “You weren’t even going to send a text?”

            “Stiles.” It was an order this time, and Stiles growled at him, yanking at his wrists. Derek let him go this time, and Stiles stalked past him. Derek was suddenly very glad he didn’t have knick-knacks sitting around the house, no form of decoration Stiles could throw at him. He looked like he absolutely would at this point. “I was going to call.”

            “Yeah?” Stiles asked aggressively. “When? When you hit the road? A week out? When, Derek?”

            Derek rolled his eyes, but Stiles wasn’t wrong. He’d been planning to call when he was far enough away that Stiles wouldn’t think he could follow. It would bound to be pretty far. It must have shown on Derek’s face, because Stiles made a noise of disgust.

            “You really weren’t going to say anything,” he accused, voice going soft around the edges, cracking under the stress of the realization. “You can really just walk away like that?”

            “Beacon Hills doesn’t need two packs,” Derek told him, drawing back a little as Stiles stalked closer. “Your pack has a lot to sort out right now, but you’re safe. Deucalion is gone, the twins are joining you, Kali and Ennis and Jennifer are dead.” He was proud about not stuttering over the last name. It still hurt. “I don’t need to be one more problem for you.”

            “Do you think maybe you should let me decide what I want my problems to be?” Stiles asked plaintively. “Don’t I even get a say?”

            “Not this time, Stiles,” Derek responded, looking away.

            “Which time, then?” Stiles asked, jabbing a finger into Derek’s chest to get his attention. “Which time do I get a say? Because I was pretty sure after this summer, I qualify for having an opinion.”

            “You know that’s not what I meant,” Derek countered, grabbing at his wrist before he could make a second jab. “I have to get away for a while, okay?”

            “Away from what, Derek! Away from everything settling down? Away from everyone finally getting the fuck together and sorting through everything that’s been happening since January?” His voice dropped, low and hurt. “Away from me?”

            A rough noise of exasperation escaped Derek, and he pulled Stiles forward into a hug. Stiles shoved at him for a split second, still desperate to be angry because it was so much easier than being hurt, than being broken.

            “Not away from you,” Derek rumbled, wrapping his arms tighter around Stiles as he went lax in his grip. “I’m not doing this to get away from you.”

            Though it took a moment, Stiles’ fingers eventually curled into the fabric of Derek’s shirt and he huffed out an irritated breath. “God, you’re such an asshole.”

            “I know,” Derek agreed, rubbing his cheek against Stiles’ temple. “I don’t know why you like me.”

            “I don’t know either,” Stiles grumbled, but his hands circled around to hug Derek back. “You’re going to call me, Jerk.”

            Derek nodded a little. “Okay.”

            “And you’d better send me postcards,” Stiles prompted, burrowing his nose in the pad of Derek’s shoulder for a second.

            “Postcards?” Derek echoed. “I’m not taking a road trip, Stiles. We’re following Deucalion. I really doubt he’s going to go anywhere interesting.”

            Stiles dug his fingers into the skin along Derek’s spine for a second and then pulled back, just enough to look him in the eyes. “I don’t care. You could send me postcards from freaking Glencoe, Minnesota, as long as you are sending them.” He gave Derek a little shove, not nearly enough to push him away. “Just don’t… just don’t disappear, okay?”

            “Okay,” Derek agreed. A small smile twitched at the edges of his lips. “You know, Cora’s gone until tomorrow morning… if you wanted to stay?”

            He didn’t have to hear the rush of Stiles’ heart; he could feel it in his fingertips, see the way his eyes lit. “At least one of us wants to,” he grumbled, though it held no ire this time. Stiles trailed his fingers along Derek’s arms, all the way down to his hands, and tugged him gently further into the loft.

            If Derek left with the wrong shirt in the morning, well, Stiles wasn’t complaining.


	131. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick drabble for a friend.

            It’s in the way Derek smooths a palm down Stiles’ ribs, his fingers following into each dip like reverence. It’s in the way their fingers brush when items trade hands or information is shared over the table, or just because they are standing beside one another. It is in the way Derek nuzzles a warm nose against the shell of Stiles’ ear in the morning to wake him, puffing a ticklish breath because he likes the way Stiles wrinkles his nose.

            It’s in the way Stiles cooks his own breakfast first, so that when he brings it out, Derek’s is always the warmer plate. It’s in the way he hangs a pine-scented air freshener in the Jeep because he thinks it might remind Derek of the forest. It’s in the way he smiles at Derek when no one is looking and the way his cheeks flush when Derek catches him at it.

            It’s not in anything they say, because neither of them quite have the words for it, but it is in everything they do. It is a patina over every thought they have, in every look they trade, in every move they make. It is the way they don’t have to voice the words “I love you” to know it is what they are saying.

 


	132. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ficlet about a fic.

            I have decided I want a ficlet about Derek thinking that Stiles has a heart condition.

            I want Stiles’ mom to have died from something heart related, and Derek somehow knows this - like maybe Scott mentioned it or Derek read his file or remembers it - and he notices that Stiles’ heart always seems to be beating too fast, and sometimes it skips beats or just does this weird slow- down- speed-up thing. He knows Stiles can feel it because his breathing goes shallow for just a moment too, but he also knows Stiles hasn’t gotten help for it.

            So he tries to help, to intervene. He tries to casually ask Scott about it, but casual isn’t really his forte and so Scott gets worried and later he asks Stiles if he can listen to his heart for a bit just to be sure, and Stiles is like “whatever, sure” and lets him because his dad makes him get checked yearly and he’s always been healthy, but if Scott heard something, better safe than sorry, right?

            And while he’s listening, Scott happens to mention that it was really Derek who was worried — and Stiles’ heartbeat stutters worse than he does when he says “he- he what?”

            And Scott realizes… oh. OH.

            But he’s a little shit when it comes to messing with his best friend and they haven’t played pranks on each other in a while because of all the crazy werewolf stuff -they used to do this more often, and he misses it quite honestly - and this is pretty harmless, so he just tells Stiles he heard nothing weird (which is true) and Derek must just be imagining it (which is less true).

            But the next time that Scott sees Derek, he tells him yeah it’s definitely beating weird for some reason (which, ok, is technically true right? Crushing on mr tall-dark-and-handsome the loner werewolf is kind of weird in Scott’s book) and asks “what should we do?”

            It ends up that Scott agrees to talk to the sheriff about it (though he doesn’t do so because there’s nothing to tell) and when Isaac comes home saying Derek warned him to please keep an ear on Stiles, Scott explains the situation and they both decide yep they definitely need to mess with their friends over this because there are just so few opportunities to play matchmaker for the others.

            Isaac tells Allison later, who tells Lydia, and they all act concerned for Stiles when Derek is around like ‘Derek maybe you should say something to him since you heard it first’ and Derek can’t figure out why they are all acting so weird but he chalks it up to concern.

            And then Derek spends two working himself up about it to the point where he finally just drives over to Stiles’ house and knocks on the door (because the sheriff told him if he catches him on the roof one more time he will find wolfsbane shingles or something) and Stiles answers and Derek tells him everything. Tells him how they’ve all been listening and how they are afraid his heart has a problem and how he should go get it checked out and the whole time Stiles just goes from looking horrified to looking irritated to looking amused until finally it’s clear he’s holding back laughter so Derek stops talking.

            And that’s when Scott starts laughing from the other room, because he was there telling Stiles to go talk to Derek before Derek implodes over this, and Stiles shoots Scott a fondly annoyed look because /best friends/ right? And then he explains to Derek how the pack ganged up on them and there’s nothing wrong with him, okay?

            And Derek asks him how that can be, because even right now his heart is beating too fast and Stiles manages a sort of nervous smile because now comes the hard part and so he says something like “You’re kind of oblivious, you know? I don’t have a /medical/ problem, I have an /emotional/ one. It’s called a crush and it’s not life threatening… but you could help cure it if you’re so concerned.”

            And Scott is just like oh that’s my cue! and leaves and then Stiles invites Derek in for some, uh, non-medical mouth to mouth help with his heart condition.

 


	133. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to write rave!Sterek

            Sometime in the last twenty minutes, Stiles had lost track of Scott, the darkness of the rave lit only by the glow from the blacklights. It shone brightly from the dizzying assortment of neon paints, scattered from the glow sticks people swung and settled deep into the neon threads people wore as crowns and bracelets and necklaces. He had thrown a cursory glance around for Scott, but he’d been heading for where Allison had disappeared, swallowed by the crowd on the tips of Isaac’s fingers.

            It wasn’t a huge deal; he hung out with Scott often enough that a little time to dance by himself in the throng of people was not unwelcome. If he stayed put, eventually Scott would range back, or at least leave him a text to find out where he’d gone.

            So Stiles just closed his eyes and let the bass seep into his bones and set his blood pumping hard. It was easier, here in the darkness, to forget the rest of the world. It was easy to forget his own darkness, heavy in his heart since the day he’d died. It was easy to forget the people that were missing from his life, both the ones that had been taken and the ones who had been left. It was easy, he thought as he danced with warm bodies so close all around him, not to feel alone.

            He didn’t catch sight of the stranger prowling through the crowd toward him until they were only a few yards apart. Stiles smiled, because he couldn’t see much through the glowing colors traced onto the guy’s features like war paint, but he could see the line of his jaw, the spiky hair. He could see broad shoulders as the guy moved in closer, hesitating just enough for Stiles to angle his body to grant permission to join him.

            The stranger practically radiated heat as he moved in close, closer than anyone casually dancing should have done. It should have felt uncomfortable, but it only felt familiar to Stiles, like he was dancing with a friend- except this wasn’t a friend if for no other reason than because Stiles’ friends didn’t dance like that. They didn’t move like their hands belonged ghosting over his hips, or like they would like nothing better than to bury their nose in the soft crook of his shoulder.

            He wanted to ask questions, but the music was too loud for anything but shouting, so he just let go of his reservations and let the music move them both a little closer.

 

* * *

 

            Of course Derek knew who Stiles was, even from across the sea of people, even through the smear of glowing lights that skewed his vision just slightly. He’d been assaulted at the entrance by a young woman wielding body paint. He could have gotten past her easily, but the idea of being able to hide in plain sight, the shape of his face costumed by the colors she traced onto his skin, was tantalizing. A part of him wished he had a mirror, but not enough that he was willing to lose track of Stiles’ scent, of his heartbeat thrumming underneath the bass.

            He’d been away for months, running with Cora for the sake of running. They’d spent the change of the new year ranging up and down the coast, sometimes in his car, sometimes on the pads of their paws through the forests of the north and down to the beaches near the border. Through all of it, the scent of the loud-mouthed, stupid teenager had followed him, dogging every step, haunting through his dreams.

            Finally, he’d given up. He’d come back to Beacon Hills and tracked him down, only to find him at what was arguably the most obnoxious location in the entire town. Derek hadn’t been thrilled, but here he was, threading through the undulating crowd, following the muddied trail of scent until he could catch sight of him.

            When he did, he froze.

            Yards away, Stiles danced with his eyes closed, a ring of glowing red around his neck like a collar, his hips gyrating in a positively sinful manner. Somehow Derek remembered to breathe, remembered that he’d come here to find Stiles, and that meant moving forward. He hesitated for only a moment before the orange glow around his eyes reminded him that he was wearing a mask. It would be so much darker for Stiles, so much less clear, and that gave Derek the courage to take a step toward him, and another, and another, until he was close enough that Stiles looked up.

            It had been far too long since he had seen those amber-brown eyes. When he caught sight of them, lit unearthly shades by the strange glow surrounding them, his breath caught in his throat. For a split second Stiles studied him, and then angled himself toward Derek, an invitation. Neither of them said a word as Derek moved in closer.

            He wanted to tell Stiles he was back. He wanted to tell him how he had to come back because he couldn’t forget him, how he chased him in his dreams, always just out of reach. There were a million things Derek wanted to say to Stiles, but his tongue couldn’t seem to find even one of them, and so he left his hands speak for him, fingers ghosting over Stiles’ hips. He was warm, so warm Derek could feel it even inches away, could smell the sweat on his skin from dancing. Just like in his dreams, too close and too far, all at the same time.

            Just as he opened his mouth to say something, anything, to beg Stiles to step away from all this noise and heat and humanity, he felt Stiles’ fingers slipping into the belt loops of his jeans, pulling him closer. He was sure he made a sound, a small, severed whimper when their noses touched, and then he was closing the distance between them, finally close enough to kiss Stiles.

            It was everything he had been wanting, the soft warmth of Stiles’ lips, the feel of his knuckles along Derek’s hipbones as he grasped a little tighter, pulled him in a little further. Derek pulled his hands up, smoothed his palms over the line of Stiles’ jaw and sank into the kiss.

            The same instance, Stiles pulled back like he’d been startled, eyes wide. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet the music lapped up the word to every ear but Derek’s.

            “Derek?”

            An apology fell from Derek’s lips before he could even think about it, but when he began to pull away, Stiles tightened his grip on Derek’s belt loops, halting him. Looking back, he met Stiles’ gaze, wide and bewildered, like maybe Derek was a unicorn or a ghost, something which didn’t belong at the tips of his fingers.

            “I’m sorry,” he repeated softly, knowing Stiles could hear him only by virtue of reading his lips.

            “You came back,” Stiles said, a little brokenly. Derek straightened at the tone, unable to discern if Stiles thought his return was good or bad.

            Then Stiles gave a good, solid yank to his belt loops, dragging him back closer even as he released him long enough to bring his arms up. Derek froze completely as Stiles draped his arms over his shoulders, buried his nose in Derek’s shoulder, got so close Derek could feel his heart beating against his chest. Slowly, he brought his hands up, running them down Stiles’ flank once before surrendering, wrapping his arms around Stiles and holding on as if Stiles might disappear if he didn’t.

            “Welcome home,” Stiles mumbled into his shoulder, and for the first time since he’d left, Derek relaxed.


	134. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five first kisses + one confession. For Siny, because she was sad.

**I.**

            The first time was at Stiles’ window in the middle of the night. Stiles was, for once, occupied with school work instead of impending supernatural doom, his papers spread over the desk, twenty different tabs open in his browser about a revolutionary war.

            The tap on the window was nearly inaudible, would have gone unnoticed if Stiles wasn’t expecting it. Derek had messaged him earlier about bringing over a couple of books on the subject and Stiles didn’t think that, given recent events, his father would take kindly to the werewolf showing up at the front door.

            When Stiles shoved himself away from his desk and opened the window, Derek shoved three thick books into his hands. “That was all I could find, but I marked the interesting pages,” he said. “I figured you were busy enough.”

            Stiles groaned, shifting the books in his arms and giving Derek a tired smile. “Oh my god, thank you. I could kiss you right now.”

            “Okay,” Derek said softly.

            Stiles drew back a little, not sure he’d heard right. “Okay?”

            Derek blinked slowly, leaning in the open window. Keeping perfectly still, Stiles held his breath as Derek brushed his lips over his. He would later be certain the embarrassing, high noise that escaped him couldn’t possibly have come from him.

            And then Derek pulled back, and was gone.

**II.**

            Their first kiss was in the forest, during an argument that escalated out of hand faster than either of them were prepared for. One moment Stiles was yelling scathing remarks at Derek, the next he was shoved up against the nearest tree, Derek’s forearm pinning him, their lips crushed together and he could hardly breathe past the desperation welling inside of him as he clutched at Derek’s arm and kissed back for every time he’d wanted and never been able to.

**III.**

            The first time they kiss was in Derek’s Camaro. He’d driven Stiles home from the loft because his Jeep refused to start. The soft sound of Stiles’ voice murmuring from the passenger seat, scratchy from the late hour, washed over Derek as he drove, until the moment he pulled into the drive, headlights flashing over the front door of the Stilinski house.

            “Thanks, man,” Stiles mumbled, fumbling at the door handle. The locks clicked and Stiles looked over to Derek, who was smirking at him.

            “Good night, Stiles,” Derek said.

            “Smug bastard,” Stiles groused, but instead of reaching for the handle again, he just sat there for a moment. There wasn’t warning, no prompting; he just levered himself up in the bucket seat, leaned into Derek’s space, and kissed him.

            It was fifteen minutes before he finally exited the car, hair rumpled and a warm smile on his kiss-swollen lips.

**IV.**

            Three days of no contact was why Stiles turned up at the loft, scowl in place, and let himself inside. The place was silent and clean, but not empty like he’d expected; not like last time, when Derek abandoned them. This time Derek was face down on his bed, so asleep that he didn’t rouse at all when Stiles closed the heavy, metal door.

            Stiles slipped off his shoes and padded over to the bed, his scowl slipping when Derek let out a tiny, muffled whimper.

            Nightmares. Again.

            He took a seat on the edge of the bed, running a hand soothingly down Derek’s flank until the werewolf stirred, blinking sleepily at him. “Stiles?”

            “Yeah,” Stiles said softly. “You’ve been missing.”

            “Sorry,” Derek said, and it sounded so small that any anger Stiles might have still harbored melted away.

            Leaning down, Stiles pressed a kiss to Derek’s temple, and then scooted onto the bed, curling up around Derek, one arm over his waist. “It’s okay,” he said, pressing his nose into the nape of Derek’s neck. “Go back to sleep.”

**V.**

            Their first kiss was at the coffee shop where Stiles started working over the summer, when Derek showed up at closing. Stiles was alone for the first time, and he’d messaged Derek to come see him immediately. Derek had shown up, breathless and worried, and Stiles showed him into the back room.

            Surrounded by boxes of stock, Stiles walked him backward into the shelves, pressing close, palms along his jaw. Derek listened to his heartbeat thrum rapidly, feeling the beat in his fingertips where they rested against the skin of Stiles’ hips.

            Stiles gave him plenty of time to say no, plenty of time to step aside, to stop him, to get away. Derek leaned into one of Stiles’ palms, turning to kiss the other. With a groan that sent a shock through Derek’s system, Stiles surged forward and kissed him fervently.

            “I didn’t think you’d come,” Stiles murmured against his lips.

            “I haven’t yet,” Derek said, smirking. He felt more than saw Stiles’ return smile.

            “I can change that.”

**+I.**

            Stiles lay on his back, sprawled across Derek’s bed, his eyes half-hooded, heart ticking slowly down to normal. Beside him, Derek lay belly-down, one leg thrown over Stiles but too hot for any other contact. He couldn’t keep the grin off of his face, so he was hiding it in the cool side of the pillow.

            Chuckling, Stiles shifted himself around until he could run his fingertips down the edge of Derek’s ribs, ticking over each one and watching Derek flinch minutely away, just a little ticklish. “Derek,” he said softly, voice scratchy and raw.

            Derek didn’t dignify that with words, just a low him of acknowledgement.

            Stiles smiled. “How many times are we going to pretend this is our first time, before we decide it’s not a first time anymore?”

            “Forever,” Derek mumbled into the pillow, then turned his head to look at Stiles over the crook of his arm. “Is that okay?”

            “Forever is a very long time for firsts,” Stiles said, aiming for wise and landing somewhere around cheeky. “You sure?”

            “Yes,” Derek said, no hesitation. “I love you.”

            Swallowing thickly, Stiles leaned over and pressed a warm, slow kiss to Derek’s temple. “Another first,” he said softly. “When you put it like that, I don’t think I’ll get tired of first times either.”

 


	135. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a video that no longer exists.

            The thing was, Derek never really thought Stiles would leave. There was always that possibility lurking in the back of his mind, that he wasn’t good enough for Stiles, that Stiles was better than him, better than this, better than mucking around with trying to salvage the wreckage of both their lives after he’d somehow managed to survive high school. It scraped at the back of his mind, in the slinky, manipulative voice of his late uncle, that Derek broke everything he touched, hurt everyone he loved, couldn’t hang onto good things because in the end, when the ashes settled and the fights were over, Derek just wasn’t good enough.

            Stiles was supposed to be different. Sometimes, when he woke up after Stiles to find him watching over him or when they sat down to a dinner Derek had made and Stiles enthusiastically complimented it or when they curled up on the couch to read or catch up on the handful of shows they both enjoyed and Stiles would absently brush his fingers over and over on Derek’s arm like he just wanted to be in contact… those times, Derek even believed Stiles was different. That they could do this. That it was right, and this was where they were supposed to be and do.

            Other times, Derek said the wrong thing and Stiles’ jaw would jut a little as he bit back a scathing reply. Some nights they would talk about moving away and Stiles would sleep on the couch or go to his dad’s because he couldn’t just leave his dad behind, Derek. Some days Derek still argued with Scott and Stiles wouldn’t come home for days.

            But he would, eventually, and he would slip into bed and tuck himself up against Derek’s side. Sometimes Derek would apologize first, sometimes Stiles beat him to it. They would talk about it in the morning over breakfast. Sometimes that made it better. Sometimes it made it worse. Derek learned that french toast was a better apology than scrambled eggs, and that letting Stiles wake up on his own time was the only way not to get verbally mauled.

            But Stiles had always come home.

            So when a week passed after their last fight, Derek had thought Stiles was just taking longer than usual to range home. He called, but the line went straight to voicemail. This wasn’t something that should be left on a message. He called Stiles’ father, to see if everything was okay, but the sheriff only said “You need to ask him yourself,” which would have been fine if Stiles would just answer the phone.

            Two weeks. Two weeks passed without communication. Two weeks before that little voice began to whisper I told you so at every reminder of Stiles. The picture of them on the nightstand, his toothbrush on the bathroom counter, his empty coffee mug beside Derek’s. Everything still smelled like Stiles; the couch, the loveseat, the bed. The empty sound of his missing heartbeat was deafening in the evenings.

            The text, when it came, was simple.

_I’m picking up my stuff Tuesday._

            Derek didn’t have to be told not to be there, he could feel it clearly enough. Stiles wouldn’t have given him a heads up if he wanted him there; he knew Derek’s schedule in the evenings rarely consisted of leaving the house unless Stiles made him. Now, one last time, Stiles was making him.

            The change was stark. Derek dawdled after work, cruised around the city for a couple of hours until he deemed it was ‘safe’ to go home. When he opened the door and found the simple Goodbye note on the kitchen counter, he knew nothing was ever going to be the same.

            He’d spent the rest of the night curled up under a pile of blankets and called in sick the next morning. Stiles would have laughed at him for being dramatic, but he would have crawled in with him. He would have held his hand and told him the whole world hasn’t ended yet, Derek, it’s not about to start cause of this. Even if you got nothing else, you’ve still got me.

            Except that he didn’t. Not anymore.

            It was a month before the text came. No name, no greeting- just a location from a number he didn’t recognize. He knew exactly who he would find if he went there.

            He told himself he was over it, that Stiles had left and there was no recovery anymore. They had moved on. Stiles had, anyway, and Derek told himself that he could, too. Sometimes Derek told himself he didn’t love Stiles anymore, just to see how it felt, how it tasted on his tongue.

            It tasted like denial, like lies, like ash.

            There was no way he wasn’t going, but he promised himself he didn’t need to.

            He knew the cafe well, knew the little tables that nestled out front, the friendly wait staff that would appear almost instantly when they sat down. This was the diner that he used to take Stiles to on Wednesday afternoons, a way to celebrate that half the week was over and that they still had the rest of the week together.

            He parked the Camaro a block away and walked the rest of the way, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. The air was crisp, on the cusp of summer and autumn, prickling at his throat. It was nothing compared to the way his breath caught when he saw Stiles sitting at the table they had always used, across from a boy who was smiling at whatever story Stiles was telling.

            The feeling hit him like a punch to the gut. He could feel the shift scrabbling under his skin, clawing and howling at him to go over, to tell Stiles he was sorry. He was so sorry, please come home, please don’t do this.

            But he stayed, leaning against the brick at the edge of the building across the street, and just watched. He watched them chat over the remains of their lunch, watched them order their extra drinks after the check had come, drink them over conversation Derek absolutely was not listening to, tuning them out, letting the chatter of the other patrons gloss over the words he didn’t want to hear until the moment they pushed back their chairs, got to their feet, and moved in for-

            -for… a handshake?

            Derek straightened, arms unfolding as he watched them exchange a swift, firm handshake, and then the stranger was checking his watch and heading away from the cafe. Stiles took a seat at the same moment Derek’s phone buzzed with a text message.

            It was the same number as before, when Derek swiped the screen awake and checked.

             _I’m not listening to one more freaking night of “I miss him” so suck it up and fix things with him_.

            Scott.

            Derek looked up, tucking his phone into his pocket, and took in the sight of Stiles, sitting alone at their table, leaning back in his chair, a mug of something warm in his hands as he stared into the middle distance. Derek knew that look, knew that Stiles was lost in thought, lost in memory. He loved that look. He missed that look.

            So he screwed up his courage, steeled himself, and strode across the street. Stiles didn’t notice him approaching, didn’t notice him scoot around the gates that cordoned off the dining area from the sidewalk, only looking up when Derek slid into the recently vacated seat across from him.

            “Scott?” Stiles asked, not moving the mug from where he held it close to his lips.

            “Scott,” Derek confirmed. There were a million things he wanted to say to Stiles in that moment, but none of them seemed sufficient. “I miss you.”

            At that, Stiles sucked in a deep breath, fingers tightening on his mug for an instant before he relaxed, setting the cup on the table between them. He leaned back, studying Derek, and let out the breath slowly.

            “I missed you too.”

            “You didn’t come home,” Derek said softly. “I thought you never wanted to see me again.”

            “I thought I never wanted to see you again, too,” Stiles admitted. “For about two days.”

            “You’ve been gone more than two days,” Derek said. “You took all your stuff.”

            “It’s in a storage unit,” Stiles told him, the hint of a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. “I kept thinking you’d come after me. Ask me to come home.”

            “If I had?” Derek wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

            “I would have come,” Stiles said. Derek could hear the hurt in the tone.

            Leaning forward, forearms on the table, Derek opened his palms to Stiles, held out both of his hands. Stiles watched, eyes flicking up to Derek’s uncertainly, and Derek did his best to smile.

            “Come home,” he murmured. “Please.”

            Tentatively, Stiles sat up in his chair, fingertips sliding over his, over the flesh of his palms until they touched his wrists. He gently grasped Derek’s hands, returned his smile and Derek could hear his heartbeat speed.

            “Okay,” Stiles agreed.


	136. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In a world where people don’t see in color until they find their true mate”
> 
> Colormates AU for Chasing.

            The first time they meet, it is by accident. The young man all but crashes a grocery cart into Derek’s, and beside him, Laura loses it laughing at the face he makes. They can both smell the bloom of embarrassment around the teen, but that is not what draws Derek’s attention. It isn’t the many stuttered, half-finished apologies, or the way the boy’s long, slender fingers right the things which toppled in their cart.

            It is the bright dart of his eyes as their gazes meet.

            It is the catch of the boy’s breath in his throat, and the sudden silence that chases it.

            It is the strange and unfamiliar sensation of color in a world full of black and white, and the visceral craving to see it again that burrows under his skin.

            It is the warm feel of Laura’s hand on his shoulder the moment the boy disappears around the corner, and the way she says quietly, “Well, that’s unfortunate.”

           

* * *

 

 

            He doesn’t pay attention to what else goes into his cart. His father will probably have something to say about the wheat crackers and the wrong kind of peanut butter and spaghetti instead of angel hair pasta, but he can hardly think beyond the strangling need to leave. To get away from the unfairly attractive stranger he had nearly annihilated in his shopping enthusiasm.

            Though he can hardly stand to be, he is careful putting the groceries into the backseat of his Wrangler. He is less careful driving home, or taking them out, and his father comes to see him pushing bags around the kitchen floor and talking to himself.

            “Traumatic shopping trip?” his father asks with a wry smile.

            The look Stiles turns to him is wild, the sort a cornered animal gives, and the harsh breath he draws is audible in the sudden absence of rustling plastic bags. For a split second, Stiles considers lying to his father, but he has never been a very good liar, and subtle is his personal antonym.

            “Do we still have that color chart?” he rasps out past the constriction of his throat. “The- the one mom made.”

            His father’s eyes narrow, brow scrunching, but he doesn’t demand an explanation. He just disappears, and Stiles returns to putting away the groceries. By the time he is finished, his father has reappeared, a framed piece of artwork in his hands. He passes it to Stiles, who feels his stomach swoop dangerously as his eyes fall on the word blue. Most of it is the same almost monochrome shade of grey, but at the very tip–

            –the same blue as the stranger’s eyes.

            “I am in so much trouble,” Stiles says, raising his gaze to his father’s.

            “We should talk,” his father says.

 

* * *

 

            Derek combs the entire house when they return, pulling things out of cupboards and off shelves and out of the closet, a tornado of anxiety and need. Laura trails behind him, putting things back in order and watching him desperately seek something he has no name for, something he has never had an opportunity to gauge for himself.

            He finds it, at the back of the liquor cabinet. It is a bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon whiskey, and he grasps it as though it is the most precious item in creation. “This is it,” he proclaims, passing it to Laura.

            “Golden-brown,” she says. She has met her soulmate several times, and already sees in full color. She catches his gaze, and he loathes the pity he sees there, moreso because he knows it is valid, that she shares in this with him. “He’s human,” she adds, like either of them need to be reminded.

            “So was dad,” Derek counters, but he can feel the sick, clinging sensation that accompanies dread.

            “That was different,” Laura says. Of course it was. Their father had known about wolves before he ever met their mother. The rules that keep their pack safe from humans and hunters alike hadn’t applied to them.

            They apply to Laura, and they apply here.

            That night, he places the whiskey bottle on his dresser, and watches color bleed onto the label, and thinks fiercely that he’ll do whatever he has to do.

 

* * *

 

            “Auburn,” his father tells him at the dinner table, a week after the blue shade of striking eyes has faded into the mural of colors he can now see. They have become devastatingly addictive to categorize, to stare at until he loses himself in the green of their couches or the yellow and blue and tan of the upstairs bathroom. He cannot see all of them, not by far, but he can see a lot of colors.

             _Auburn_  is not one of them, not yet. It is the color of his mother’s hair, though all he sees in photographs is a wealth of grey and black. They do not have many pictures of her; she died when Stiles was young and they still believed they had more time.

            “It was beautiful,” his father says softly, reverent. The hole she left when she died has never healed, and sometimes Stiles thinks he can see it there in the dark hollow of his father’s eyes. “ _She_  was beautiful.”

            “I can’t see auburn yet,” Stiles admits, running a thumb over the glass of the picture.

            “It’s sort of… brown and red, together,” his father explains, making motions with his hands as if to mix the ideas in Stiles’ view. “It shines with red in the sun, and looks brown in the shade. When she curled her hair, it was both.”

            “I’m sorry,” Stiles says, though it is inadequate for what he means because his mother is gone, and she took all of the color of his father’s world with her when she left. His father remembers her, remembers the color of her hair and the shade of her eyes and the blush of her skin, but he will never see the world in colorful hues again without her. There are no words to make up for that loss.

            “I can help you find him again,” his father offers. Sometimes, Stiles thinks, there are advantages to being the sheriff’s son.

 

* * *

 

            Derek closes the door to the house so softly there is no click, no telltale sign that he is sneaking out in the middle of the night to chase the scent of the boy from the supermarket with whiskey colored eyes and a heartbeat that has haunted Derek’s dreams for two weeks now. He has become an itch under Derek’s skin, the other half of every breath he takes, the ringing in his ears that won’t leave him be. He is the blue of the sky and the green of the forest and the gentle gold of morning sunlight shafting through Derek’s bedroom window to spill upon his empty bed.

            He  _needs_  this.

            There is color in his world now, and he needs the one responsible for it.

 


	137. Coach x Greenberg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble for Greenbergsays <3

            The scent of Italian spices filled the kitchen, accented by tomato, garlic, and baking bread. Two bowls sat to the side of the stove top, warmed by the gas-lit fire under her large pot of boiling water. She stood in front of the stove, humming softly as she watched the noodles drift up and down in the bubbling water.

            At the sound of the front door opening, she grabbed the potholders already laying out and dumped the pasta into the strainer hooked onto the edge of the sink. Steam fluffed up around her, smelling of salt and olive oil and perfectly-cooked pasta.

            “In the kitchen,” she called, stepping back to the stove to stir the sauce.

            A moment later he appeared in the doorway, closing his eyes like a cat in a sunbeam as he took in the aroma. She smiled when he stepped over, slipping his arms around her waist from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder.

            “Hey, Coach,” she greeted softly.

            “I haven’t been your coach in twenty years,  _Greenberg_ ,” he replied.

            She smiled, and turned around to face him. “I haven’t been Greenberg in ten years,  _Bobby_ ,” she responded. It was the same every day, and she did it just to watch the smile that brightened his eyes when she said his name. “Welcome home.”

            He hummed some form of acknowledgment, and nodded toward the food. “It looks delicious.”

            “It’s missing something,” she told him gravely, eyes dancing with the sort of mischief that had plagued him through her high school years. “Do you want to add the secret ingredient?”

            Rolling his eyes, he backed up just enough to give her space as she raised one hand. “It’s not really a secret, Des. You already told me what it was.”

            Instead of responding, she just waited, one palm upturned. They stood like that, a standoff evident in their gazes, until he gave an exasperated sigh and reached up to cup her hand in both of his. Her smile widened as he bent just a little, pressing a kiss into her open palm, and closing her fingers around it. Without a word, she kissed his cheek and then turned and opened her hand over the sauce, stirring it as she did so.

            “You’re really ridiculous, you know,” he told her, in the same tone of voice anyone else would have said  _I love you_.

            “I know,” she said, and  _I love you, too_  echoed warmly in the words.


	138. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I need you to pet sit my pet this weekend and I forgot to mention it’s a giant snake, [just make sure the power is on and he hasn’t dumped his water bowl], thanks bye! AU”

            The knock at his door was unusual for several reasons, though how frantic it sounded was at the top of the list. No one frantically came to Derek’s door. His sister sometimes called frantically, and his uncle Peter sometimes burst into his apartment frantically trying to hide from his sister.

            However, when he opened the door, it was no one he actually knew, although he remembered the young man as someone who sometimes rode the elevator with him.

            “Hello?” he said, taking in the sight of flushed cheeks and hair that looked like the boy had tumbled out of bed in the worst of ways.

            “Hi,” the boy said breathlessly.

            It sounded less like a greeting and more like the opening to a long speech, so Derek leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. “Yes?”

            “I’m Stiles,” the guy said, like it explained something. “I live two doors down the hall and we haven’t really officially met yet but I, uh, I have to go out of town for the week, and I was wondering if- well, if you would mind checking in on my pet? She doesn’t need a lot!” Stiles hurried to say when Derek straightened. “I swear you just have to check on her once a day and make sure she hasn’t dumped her water bowl.”

            Derek rolled his eyes, but he ran a hand through his hair and gave a little nod. The guy seemed to be in a lot of distress over this, and Laura was always telling him to make friends. “Okay, I guess I can do that.”

            “Great!” Stiles said in a rush. “Do you- could you come over for just a minute to meet her? And, like, just see where she is and stuff?”

            Stepping into the hall, Derek closed the door firmly behind himself. Stiles seemed to be bursting with energy as Derek followed him down the hall, and into the apartment two doors down. It looked a lot like Derek’s- a front room, a small kitchen, and two bedrooms. Through the open door of one of the rooms, he could see a messy bed and a dresser that looked like maybe it had seen the apocalypse. Stiles lead him to the other room, and opened the door.

            Inside was a huge glass, plastic, and wooden enclosure that took up most of one of the walls. Inside were a few large climbing branches, two large boxes with holes in the sides, and in between them was what appeared to be a large plastic bin full of water. At the front of the enclosure coiled a snake that had to be as big around as Derek’s thigh, watching them.

            “This is Lydia,” Stiles said a little nervously, though Derek could tell it was because he thought Derek might flee at any second. “She ate this morning so you won’t have to feed her, and her heating and lighting are all set up on thermostats and timers so, unless the power goes out, all you’ll need to do is check her water. Sometimes she decides it looks better outside of his dish.”

            “You have… a snake,” Derek said, not sure exactly what sort of response this situation merited. He had been expecting a dog or a cat, maybe a small bird or a hamster. Not… this.

            “Yes,” Stiles agreed, still watching Derek. “She’s a… she’s boa. A red-tail boa.” When Derek failed to move from where he was, Stiles continued. “Normally, my friend Scott comes to take care of her but Scott’s the one I’m going out of town with and the person I asked before backed out just now, and I don’t really know anyone else around here, so…”

            “What- what if she gets out?” Derek managed, struggling back to a level of functionality.

            “She won’t,” Stiles said with a surety that almost fooled Derek into accepting the statement.

            “But what if she does?” Derek insisted.

            Stiles sighed. “That’s why I keep the door closed. She’s never gotten out, but… you know, just in case.” He grabbed Derek’s hand, fingers warm, and pressed a set of keys into his palm. “That’s a key to the house, and a key to her enclosure.”

            “What about to this room?” Derek asked numbly holding the keys.

            “Oh, you don’t need one,” Stiles said. “The front door locks.”

            “But… what about her? If she gets out of the cage… won’t she…?” Derek gestured at the door, as if it should be obvious.

            “Well she… how would she open it? She hasn’t got any hands,” Stiles said, already starting to back out of the room. “My number is on the fridge, if you need it. Are you gonna be okay with this? I really have to go or I’ll miss my plane.”

            “Yeah,” Derek said faintly. He would later wonder why it never occurred to him to say no until after he heard the click of the front door and he was left staring at the ten-foot snake that had just become his charge.

            “I wonder if you’re big enough to eat humans,” he told her. Lydia just stared at him, blocky nose against the glass front, and he sighed. Maybe Google would have some answers.

 


	139. Gen, Pack Feels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Canonical character death
> 
> “Derek/Isaac/Boyd cuddling after Erica’s death.”

            Thankfully Derek was not alone in the station when he caught the heavy clomp of boots upstairs. Isaac was reading a book for school half a car away from him, curled up on a ratty seat with the book on his thighs. Reading was, perhaps, an overstatement, Derek thought. He could see the blank stare Isaac was giving the pages, knew he hadn’t turned a page in an hour. The kid was thinking so loudly Derek could practically hear it, and none of it was pleasant.

            Isaac’s eyes came into focus the same moment Derek lifted his head to look toward the entrance. Both werewolves raised their noses, ears straining to hear who had come to their hideout. When Isaac glanced over, Derek gave a little shake of his head; he didn’t recognize the shambling pattern of footsteps. Whoever it was, they were injured, which meant that they weren’t coming to attack.

            So Derek scooped up a shirt from the back of one of the seats, grabbed a bottle of water from the case at his feet, and headed out to meet them. A thump resounded from the double doors at the top of the stairs a moment before they creaked open and Boyd spilled through the opening. The scent of blood, both stale and fresh, flooded down the stairs even as Derek dashed up them, catching the teen before he could take a tumble.

            “Boyd!” Isaac exclaimed, rushing to help Derek cart him down the steps, navigate him through the only semi-cleared wreckage and into a seat.

            “What happened?” Derek demanded as Boyd settled, as Isaac began peeling away his shirt to get at the torn flesh beneath.

            “Where’s Erica?” Isaac asked and all of them froze for a moment before Boyd shuddered, curled in on himself, a choked noise clawing up from his throat.

            Isaac slumped to the floor of the car, fingers curling in the fabric of Boyd’s torn shirt. Derek stood stock still a few feet away, not processing, just staring at them like Boyd couldn’t possibly mean what Derek thought he meant. Erica couldn’t be… Boyd had to be mistaken. She was too young. She was too full of life. She couldn’t…

            But only one set of footsteps had approached the station. Only one of his betas had stumbled, bloody and bruised and broken, down the stairs and back into Derek’s life. It was only Boyd curled up on himself, wracked with silent grief, hands seeking Isaac’s for something to hold on to, something to anchor him before the wolf took advantage of the weakness.

            Derek closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

            It was hours before Boyd was calm enough to talk about it. Between them, Derek and Isaac had nudged and coaxed Boyd to the cold, drippy showers in the dark recesses of the station. Isaac had gotten him undressed, peeled away the filthy, bloody clothes and passed them off to Derek. Not trusting Boyd to stay vertical alone, Isaac had leaned against the doorway of the stall and waited, exhausted but determined. Boyd’s wounds were alpha-given, that much was obvious by how they were healing at the speed of slow, congealing blood swirling sluggishly down the drain amidst the grime and mud of the woods where he’d woken.

 

            When the spray turned cold on Isaac’s arms, he’d stepped into the stall to turn off the water and Boyd had startled, looking at him as if he didn’t realize Isaac was there, like he didn’t know where he was. Isaac pursed his lips, but Derek was back at the sound of the water ceasing, holding out a towel that was actually clean, probably new, and only possibly stolen. He’d brought a change of clean clothes as well, sleeping clothes, clothes that Boyd had left there.

            Boyd had let Derek suture his injuries closed with the curved needle and thread Scott had given to them from the vet clinic before he donned clothing. The trio sat silently in the bottom of the shower stall for a while after that, until Derek had gotten to his feet and told the betas that they couldn’t sleep here. Isaac helped Boyd to his feet and they trudged behind Derek back to the abandoned cars.

            When they reached the car that the pack had fashioned into a bunking area, Derek ripped all of the beds down. Boyd and Isaac stared at him with wide eyes as he trashed the bedding, throwing all of it together in a mess on the floor. It wasn’t until he began arranging it that they understood; being apart tonight was not an option. They had lost something important to them, something only they could possibly understand, and it wouldn’t be easier tomorrow if they lacked in the support of what was left of their pack tonight.

            So when Derek had a suitable nest, Isaac pulled Boyd down into it and Derek let them settle before he turned off the lamps and curled himself around the other side of Boyd. He could feel the teen trembling, and he wrapped one arm protectively over him. The fingers of one of Isaac’s hands found Derek’s, threaded through them, and held on tight as he pressed his forehead to Boyd’s.

            Derek knew they would sleep eventually, but he also knew it wouldn’t be right away. Isaac had lost his family and Derek knew the pain would unfortunately be familiar to him, as fresh as Derek’s sense of loss, as sharp as Derek’s had been once. He wasn’t sure what Boyd had beyond the pack, wasn’t sure if he’d lost like this before, but judging by the race of his heart, the shake of his body, Derek guessed not. Derek guessed that the wound caused by Erica’s death would be the worst for Boyd, the first, the deepest.

            So, when Boyd began to talk, softly, about what had happened, Derek didn’t interrupt with questions. Isaac just laid a hand to Boyd’s chest, thumb stroking over his collarbone, listening with his eyes closed as Boyd told them about the alphas, about the fight, about how Erica had died, how they had just left him for dead as well. All of it spilled from him in a rush, like if he didn’t tell them fast enough it would all disappear, like she would fade from their memories if they didn’t know.

            Finally he trailed off, words slurry with exhaustion and Derek could hear his heartbeat slowing at last. He pulled Boyd close, felt Isaac scoot into their space as well, and he let his regret for dragging them into this fill him up for only a moment before he let it go, because they needed him. They both needed something to hold on to for the night, someone to show them how to put one foot in front of the other and carry on when it felt like nothing was ever going to be okay again.

            And Derek may not have known how to lead them as an alpha, but he knew how to navigate this one path. He knew his way around grief. He had earned that much.

            Through the night he held their hands, kept them close, offered them a solid presence. He listened to the beat of their hearts slow, even out until he knew they were asleep. When he closed his eyes, the sound of their breathing washed over him, steady, regular, living. They were what was left, they were all they had, and Derek intended to keep them that way, whatever it took.


	140. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every year when the kids of Beacon Hills reach maturity, they have to go into the preserve on the other side of the Wall. What happens when Stiles encounters a certain werewolf and instead of wanting to kill him, Stiles feels a strong pull towards the wolf-man.

            The night air was chill in the forest, the breeze biting with the promise of frost in the morning. Stiles had been out there since that afternoon, trotted away from the farewell calls and teasing ‘see you in the morning!’s shouted by the jerks he called friends. Only one of them had been through this before and Allison was the only one who sat quietly on the hood of Stiles’ beloved Jeep and watched him walk away from the 16-foot barbed wall which surrounded and enclosed the entire preserve. She still bore a scar across her back from her Hunt.

            Stiles shook himself, clutched the gun tightly to his chest, and sought shelter from the wind in the lee of a tree. It wasn’t much, but he’d been woefully under-prepared for this outing and no one had offered him advice beyond 'bring what you’ll need’ which wasn’t a lot of help at all because what exactly does one __need__ when hunting werewolves?

            Silver bullets, he told himself, rubbing a thumb over the bottom of the clip. He popped it out, checked the bullets for only the seven millionth time, and then shoved it back in with a satisfying click. Wolfsbane, he recited next, reaching a hand into his pocket to where his small baggie of ground wolfsbane rested. He wasn’t sure how he was going to use it, exactly, or if he would even have time to reach in and open the bag or what. But he had it, in case he __did__ think of a way to use it.

            He was ready, totally ready. He could handle anything that came his way. He could-

            The snap of a branch behind him had him dropping to the floor with a very undignified yelp.

            When the wolf came into view, circling around the trunk of the tree with hackles raised, Stiles tightened his grip on the handgun. Its red eyes actually gave off a low glow, enough for Stiles to see that the anger in them was tainted with curiosity. The fact that Stiles was not already dog food kept him from pulling the trigger, despite that he’d managed to remember which end of the gun was which.

            “You shouldn’t be here,” the wolf told him, voice full of gravel and chill.

            “They locked me in,” Stiles responded without even thinking, pausing only after he’d spit out the words to consider that he was talking to a wolf. A werewolf, if it could talk back. “Th-they lock everyone in when they turn 18.”

            The wolf seemed to consider this, then turned its attention down to the gun still clutched in Stiles’ wavering hands. “To kill us,” it stated plainly. Not quite a question, not quite an observation. It felt like it was asking Stiles what his choice was going to be.

            “Yes,” Stiles answered honestly. “I-I mean, I’m supposed to.”

            The thing was, he could have taken the shot. The wolf was close enough, was only a few feet away; even without aiming Stiles could have hit it, at least enough to give him a chance for a second shot, a killing shot. But by the light of the full moon, Stiles could see the gloss of the wolf’s black fur, the ripple of lean muscle beneath its skin, the grace with which it held itself before him.

            There was something wrong with destroying beauty like that.

            “Then do it,” the wolf ordered, stepping closer.

            Stiles cocked the gun and the wolf halted. Their eyes locked, and Stiles swallowed. “Please don’t,” he whispered. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

            The wolf considered this, and then slowly, it began to change. Its long snout pulled back, its crimson eyes fading to a clear blue. Most of the beautiful fur retreated into its skin, leaving behind stretches of pale, soft skin, until Stiles realized he wasn’t looking at a wolf anymore. He was looking at a man, one maybe a few years old than him. Or at least, something like a man, with long teeth and claws, a face still part wolf.

            “Then don’t,” said the wolf, like it was as easy as that.

            “Stop telling me what to do,” Stiles groused, but he released the hammer of the gun slowly, let it tap gently back into place. “Do you… do you have a name?”

            “Derek.” The wolf tilted his head, a silent question.

            “I’m Stiles,” he replied, toying with the gun between his hands before setting it on the leaves beside him. The wolf watched, tracking his movements. If he wanted to end this, now was his chance. “So, uh… now what? Do you need to, like, sniff my hand or something? Or can we just agree not to kill each other tonight?”

            “You’re… different,” concluded Derek after a moment.

            Stiles huffed a laugh. “Thanks,” he said, because Derek said it like it was a compliment and Stiles didn’t hear that tone very often. Derek gave him a confused look, but he remained where he was, silent and waiting. “Slow down there, chatterbox,” Stiles finally said, leaning back against the trunk of the huge oak behind him.

            Derek tilted his head, and Stiles sighed.

            It was going to be a long night.


	141. Erica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short piece to accompany a small [gifset](http://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/53619971637) made by a friend.

            It wasn’t supposed to end this way.  
  
            She had always been a fighter. She had been strong when her strength was hidden, kept behind walls that protected her from being hurt by others who didn’t understand she wasn’t _weak_. She didn’t spend her days seized by the fear that she wouldn’t succeed at anything she tried; her determination clawed out every ounce of success she could glean from her world.  
  
            The offer had been too much to resist. A way out. A way to cast off the shackles of her condition. A chance to show everyone that she was strong and capable, beautiful and sure of herself. When Derek appeared, looking at her as if he _knew_ all of those things without ever having to ask, of course she said yes to him. Of course she sunk her claws into the chance for success beyond what even she had allowed herself to believe.  
  
            It shouldn’t have ended this way.


	142. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written to accompany < a href="http://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/55195628263">set of images drawn for me from a prompt I sent!

            The scent of vanilla blooms as he tips the bottle, watching the clear, dark liquid swirl into the scramble of eggs and cinnamon. When he is done, he sets it aside and turns the whisk through the mixture; he doesn’t whisk them together so much as he turns the handle, folding the flavors gently into one another like he was taught. Satisfied, he sets the bowl aside and turns on the stove. It clicks a few times before it actually lights, and he hopes that the smell of burning gas will not cause panic.

            He bought sturdy bread for this, the thick-cut, square Texas Toast style bread that his mother always used. He could still hear her voice as she lectured him about how the bread should soak up the eggs, and to make sure there was enough vanilla that he can smell it. He could barely see over the counter’s edge then; now he stands far above it, and the kitchen seems empty without her humming beside him. He dips the bread and tries to fill the silence with the first sizzle as it hits the pan.

            It’s been so long, he thinks to himself as he coats the second piece and turns the first. It’s been so long, and it feels so good to remember her. Of course he misses her, of course it hurts, but it hurts like healing, and he thinks maybe if he bandages those old, fond memories with new, happy ones, they won’t hurt at all some day.

            It’s enticing, the smell of the french toast as it browns on the skillet. A part of him wishes his father were home to smell it, even though he knows how much cooking reminds them both of her. Stiles is different than his father; he likes being reminded.

            So he cooks, and when he has two stacks, one kept warm in the oven, he sneaks squares of butter between the layers of both and tops them with a puddle of maple syrup. It’s real maple syrup, which Stiles hides from his father and uses only on days he’s alone with his memories.

            He’s not alone today, though, and the thought makes him smile. He lifts both plates and calls out as he walks: “Hey Sleepywolf! Time for breakfast!”

            Derek won’t be awake fast enough to come downstairs, Stiles knows that. He planned for that. So he takes the steps two at a time, careful of the warm plates in his hands, and nudges open the bedroom door with one shoulder. Derek has got his face shoved into the pillow, warding against the light, but he turns to look when Stiles sets down one of the steaming plates beside him.

            “C'mon, you know you want some,” he says softly.

            Confusion is scrawled all over Derek’s face, and it’s endearing in a way Stiles hasn’t found words for yet but that always makes him smile. Derek never seems to understand when people are just plain nice to him, as if it’s not something that ever happens, and Stiles sometimes thinks it’s tragic and sometimes, like right now, it just causes a warmth within him that feels like it will bubble over and never fit back inside of him.

            Instead of words, Stiles just leans over as Derek sits. He presses his nose to Derek’s forehead the moment before he lays a kiss there, between his eyebrows.

            “Thank you,” Derek murmurs, and Stiles can hear that it’s not about the kiss or the toast or anything tangible. So he just smiles again, and passes Derek a fork.


	143. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Stiles’ alternate names for Derek"  
> Written from a gifset.

            I just want a fic where Derek finally gets completely exasperated with nicknames from this mouthy kid and says “Come here.”

            And Stiles eyes him suspiciously, because Derek never asks for him to come closer. Not that he’s really asking? It’s more of a command really, but while Stiles’ mind is busy thinking how much Derek is not the boss of him, his feet have already carried him over to stand in front of Derek.

            And Derek just regards him silently for a moment, for just long enough that Stiles gets nervous; the sort of nervous where he’s going to open his mouth and say something just so there’s anything but silence sitting so heavily between them, and the moment Derek hears his heart pick up to start speaking, that’s when Derek leans forward a little.

            He leans into Stiles’ personal space, and it’s weird because, you know, he’s an _alpha werewolf_ and Stiles is 147lbs of sarcasm and bluff, but Stiles doesn’t lean away. His heartbeat quickens, but Derek doesn’t smell fear. He hasn’t smelled fear on Stiles in a long time.

            He only stops leaning when he’s level with Stiles’ cheek, close enough for even weak human ears to pick up when he breathes: “You want to say that to me again?”

            And he pulls back just enough to look Stiles in the eyes, and he’s trying to be threatening, because Stiles really should respect the power of an alpha werewolf, because Derek could rip him apart in a matter of seconds if he wanted to. But he’s _not_ and that sort of spoils the flash of red in his eyes because Stiles doesn’t have to hear his heart to know he’s lying.

            So Stiles just smirks, and he leans a little closer, and there’s inches between them, so few that Derek can feel the flutter of warm breath on his cheek when Stiles speaks, drawing out the nickname like a challenge, like he _dares_ Derek to do something about it.

            “Fuzzbutt.”


	144. Derek + Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from this [dream prompt](http://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/74007876436).

            The first time they see her, it’s at the supermarket outside of town and it’s three in the morning and she’s on the other end of the aisle with a cart and a kid and she’s out of sight before Stiles can get a good glimpse. He nudges Scott and they both surreptitiously peek around the corner but all that’s left is the memory of a scent and a cart half full of abandoned groceries.

            “She looked familiar,” Stiles explains, “Like deja vu.”

            “She smells familiar,” Scott says, touching the handle of the cart and trying to make sense of the contents. It looks normal, and that’s weird for them.

            Neither of them can place her, so they purchase their snacks and return home for video games, filing away the incident for later.

            Later isn’t much later, as it turns out. The second time they see her, she is walking a stroller through a park near the hospital. It’s sunny out, with puffy white clouds, and she’s pointing up to them, cooing at the little boy she’s pushing around. Scott’s tipping his head to the sound, trying to catch a wisp of scent, when Stiles spots her.

            “That’s Laura Hale,” he hisses, and she looks their way, of course she does, because Scott’s not the only one with super hearing. They both duck down behind a bench in a completely conspicuous way, and when they look over the back of it, she’s gone again.

            “It can’t be Laura Hale,” Scott reasons after they deliver lunch to his mom. Stiles’ dad is next on the list of good deeds, though it’s only 85% good deed; the rest is snooping through files they aren’t supposed to see. “She died two years ago.”

            “Yeah, well, Cora died six years ago when we met her,” Stiles replies, not bothering to look over when Scott shifts uncomfortably.

            It  _can’t_  be Laura, they both know that… Even if they hadn’t seen both halves of her body several miles apart, Derek had told them both about her, how nice she was, how kind, how much he’d loved her, and how much she’d loved him.

            It couldn’t be  _Laura_  because that would  _kill_  Derek.

            Of course, they can’t let it go. Scott picks up her scent a week later, and Stiles meets him at the edge of town, the side that’s as far from Derek as anyone can get an still say they live in Beacon Hills. They take his Jeep out there, but they take it slow through the neighborhood, eyes and ears open. Scott’s leaning out the passenger side window, nose to the wind, when Stiles slows to a stop halfway down a block.

            “It’s the Camaro,” he breathes, and his chest does something funny that he really hopes isn’t some kind of heart attack.

            Scott looks, but wrinkles his nose. “It’s  **a**  Camaro,” he says. They can both see the license plate isn’t the same.

            “It’s Derek’s Camaro,” Stiles says firmly, because he knows it is, because he’d recognize the Camaro anywhere, but also because he can see the tail lights, and one of them is a shade lighter than the other because one of them had gotten smashed out over the summer and the new light cover hadn’t been  _quite_  right.

            They sit in the Jeep, staring at the Camaro four houses down from them, and they hadn’t planned this far ahead so neither of them know what to do now that they know. The Camaro had been stolen a few weeks after the light got replaced, and despite Derek’s best efforts to track it down, it remained a mystery.

            It’s nearly twenty minutes before they both jump at the knock on Stiles’ window, and they both shout and scramble around in their seatbelts when they see it’s Laura staring into their vehicle with a frown on her face. When she just stands there watching, they calm themselves and Stiles meekly rolls the window down to greet her.

            “You shouldn’t be here,” she tells them before anyone even says hello.

            “Neither should you,” Scott shoots back. “You died!”

            She sighs, but she herds them out of the Jeep and into a one-story, brick house and points at the kitchen table until they both sit down and try not to fidget. Scott wonders if she’ll try to kill them and Stiles wonders if Derek will do it for her if he ever finds out they knew for so long and didn’t say anything, but all she does is fetch soda from the fridge and tell them everything they wanted to know.

            She tells them how the fire was not real - well it was  _real_ , she says, but no one died in it - and how Talia moved the pack to safety, but Laura and Derek had been away, and the sheriff had detained them and Peter, he’d been stupid and gotten himself injured in the fire, had to stay in the hospital in Beacon Hills, so Talia asked Laura to watch over him for a while. They’d stayed, long enough for Peter to stabilize, and then left for New York to find the rest of the pack.

            Except they hadn’t been there. They’d been tracked out of Beacon Hills, tracked all the way across the country, and when Laura got there, everything was empty, all the scents gone cold. No one answered the phones, and no one called, but Talia’s last instructions to Laura were to keep Derek safe, so she had.

            They’d rented a place and Laura spent her free time trying to find the pack, and Derek spent his free time blaming himself for the fire that Laura couldn’t tell him was fake because he’d go right back to Beacon Hills and get all of them in trouble, set the Argents on their tails again, or worse.

            “So why now?” Scott asks, because they’re both wondering it. Why hadn’t she gone to him now? Beacon Hills is in truce with the Argents. They had been for a year now, over a year. The hunters and the wolves work together to protect the town. Gerard, Victoria, Kate… they are all dead. It’s  _safe_.

            “Can you imagine?” She asks them, and it sounds miserable. “He’d hate me.”

            “He’d be happy you’re alive,” Scott says, meeting her eyes when she looks up at him. “All Derek’s ever wanted is to be safe and have his family back. He’s been through a lot of bad stuff, you know. He’d forgive you, if it meant having you back.”

            “I wouldn’t forgive me,” she murmurs. “If I were him, I would never forgive me.”

            “He’s not you,” Stiles says, and it’s a little cold. He’s angry she stayed away; it’s not his place to be angry, and he knows it, but he is anyway. “If you don’t tell him, we will.”

            She stares at him for a long time, but he knows she listened to his heartbeat. She knows he is telling the truth. She might be able to take on Stiles, if it came to a fight, but not Stiles  _and_  Scott. Mostly not Scott, Stiles admits to himself, although he carries a packet of mountain ash with him everywhere these days just in case he needs the protective circle.

            In the end, she gives in with a sigh. She packs up the baby - his name is Logan, she tells them - and tells them to leave the Jeep, they’ll all take the Camaro so that she doesn’t chicken out while following them. No one wants to be crammed into the Camaro together, but they do it anyway and Scott rides up front and Stiles sits in the back letting Logan hold onto his thumb with all five tiny fingers.

            When they finally pull up to Derek’s loft, the Camaro gliding soundlessly into an empty parking spot, it’s already late afternoon. They sit in the car until Scott lays a hand over Laura’s and she stops white-knuckling the steering wheel long enough to open the door. She lets Stiles out of the back and fetches the baby’s carseat and everyone is so quiet that the sound of the building’s front door is thunderous.

            When she looks up, her eyes fall upon her baby brother, standing stock-still in the entryway, pale eyes wide and heartbeat thrumming like a hummingbird. She grips the handle of the carseat so hard the plastic creaks, and forces a smile onto her face.

            “Laura?” he breathes, taking one halting, uncertain step toward the car.

            “Hi, Derek,” she says softly.


	145. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secret Admirer fic idea

            I want a fic that follows canon where Stiles has been getting secret admirer letters, and they’re always in places no one else sees and he doesn’t tell anyone, doesn’t even mention them at all because at first he doesn’t know what to think of them and later he thinks it would be weird to bring it up suddenly.

            But he puts each one away in a box in his room under his bed and sometimes when there’s nothing more pressing that needs doing, he closes the door to his room and takes them out and reads them over and tries to determine who could be writing them. He wonders if he knows them. He wonders if they’ve even met.

            Then Derek leaves Beacon Hills with Cora, and the letters stop appearing. Of course Stiles makes the connection but there’s nothing he can do now.

            Until the first letter shows up in the mail, without a return address, no signature, and all it says is:

_I can’t leave these around right now, but I haven’t forgotten you_

            Stiles files it away with the others, but he knows who they’re from now and he’s having a little trouble believing he didn’t guess earlier. He can’t do anything; none of them know where Derek and Cora are, or where they are going or if they’ll stay put long enough for even a post card to reach them.

            So Stiles waits.

            And waits.

            And it’s MONTHS before Derek comes back, but he does, finally, and Stiles only knows because a letter shows up under the windshield wiper of his Jeep that morning.

            But Stiles is a little shit, and he doesn’t tell Derek he knows. He actually casually mentions it around Derek, maybe not even TO Derek at first, about how someone keeps leaving letters and he hasn’t been able to guess who, and how sweet it is, but how he wishes he could meet them, so he could tell them that there’s already someone he likes.

            And Derek would hide his disappointment, of course, and say he thought Stiles was over Lydia.

            And Stiles would scoff and say of course he is over Lydia. There’s someone else, has been for a while now.

            So Derek assumes there is someone Stiles met while he was away and that Stiles wants him to stop, since he pretty much said so, and so he does.

            And that, THAT, is when Stiles gives the first letter back to Derek. He lays it on Derek’s pillow, and he doesn’t sign it, but he rubs his hands on it, and on the pillow, and on the bed sheets, until there’s no way he hasn’t unmistakably signed his scent onto everything that matters.

            And when Derek gets home, he finds just the letter, just a piece of card stock, folded once and placed like a name card, and when he tips it over the script reads simply:

_It’s you… It’s been you since last summer._


	146. Isaac x Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scisaac: Stars, pillow, coffee

            “I’ve never seen one, you know,” Isaac said softly, barely a breath. He didn’t need to be loud- Scott could have heard from from across the field.

            Scott blinked sleepily at him, dragging the thermos to his lips and taking a sip. Steam curled up from the small vent in the lid, pale in the darkness. “A shooting star?”

            Isaac smiled. “They’re not actually stars.”

            Rolling his eyes, Scott threaded his fingers through Isaac’s curls and sighed. “I know. They’re debris. Bits of rocks and stuff.”

            “Meteorites, Scott. They’re called meteorites.” Isaac leaned into the touch, eyes closing.”

            Scott leaned down, pressing a kiss to Isaac’s forehead. “You’re not going to see any meteorites with your eyes closed.”

            Nose wrinkling, Isaac burrowed a little closer to Scott, leaning into him. He made a good pillow, in the middle of all the dirt and brush of the field they’d driven to. “You’ll tell me if you see one?”

            “It’ll be gone before you can look,” Scott told him. He shifted around a little until Isaac was forced to open his eyes to give him a mock glare. “This was your idea, remember?”

            Isaac sighed, but instead of arguing, he just stole the coffee and took a sip. Before he could pass the drink back, a bright streak of white zipped across his field of vision and Scott’s heartbeat sped up for a beat. Isaac knew his own did the same as a smile broke onto his lips. A second, dimmer streak dropped from the sky to their left. The shower was beginning.

            “Make a wish,” Scott murmured, pulling him closer.

            Isaac shrugged, wiggling to get comfortable as yet another meteorite shot through the night sky. He didn’t need to make a wish. He had everything he wanted, right here.


	147. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mature content, nsfw
> 
> Sterek: Can I help?

            Sometimes, Stiles enjoyed the feel of the soft leather cuffs around his wrists. He enjoyed the tension when he pulled at them, the sound off the belt-buckle latches as they hit the slats in the headboard. He could watch Derek’s hands roam over his skin all day, feeling each touch shiver up and down his spine until his toes curled, until he was begging for it, until Derek finally gave in and fucked him senseless.

            Today was not one of those days.

            Today Derek wasn’t touching him.

            Today, Derek had cuffed Stiles to one side of the headboard, and then slithered to the far side of the bed. He leaned back against the wall, legs spread, and he just… he just touched himself. He put his fingertips everywhere Stiles’ should have gone, and it was driving Stiles up a wall. Watching, he knew exactly how it felt to skim his fingers down Derek’s belly, over the soft trail of hair at his navel, along the crease where his thigh met his hip. He knew the way it felt to stroke along the sensitive skin inside Derek’s thigh just to feel the twitch of his cock in his other hand.

            But he couldn’t feel any of it.

            His hands were bound and the skin of his wrists was tight as he pulled against them in an almost involuntary shift, eyes locked on the motion of Derek’s fingers over his own skin.

            “Derek,” he whined, voice gone reedy and thin. He gave a yank to the cuffs again.

            “What, Stiles?” Derek asked, with just enough feigned bitchy irritation at being interrupted. His stroke slowed, pausing with just his fingertips on his skin. Stiles whimpered, unable to tear his gaze away. “Look at me.”

            For a moment Stiles considered some sort of sarcastic reply, but sarcasm would never get him out of the cuffs, so he just dragged his attention up, until he could meet Derek’s pale eyes, darkened with want. “Please,” he groaned, shifting uncomfortably, hips flexing up a little. A small part of him thrilled when Derek nearly lost focus to look.

            “Please what?” Derek tipped his head, just the tiniest amount, fist settling loose around his cock and stroking slowly down the length. Stiles bit his lip.

            “Let me help,” Stiles rasped, barely breathing. “Please.”

            Derek hummed a little amused noise. “I think you’re going to watch a little longer. That doesn’t quite sound like begging yet.”

            Stiles thumped his head back against the headboard. It was going to be a very long night.


	148. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek: Water, freezing, ride + Sterek: Heat waves suck

            The amusement park was ungodly hot. Everything Stiles wore was sticking to him in completely unsightly ways and he was sure he smelled to high heaven by the time they reached the back. The coasters provided only a small measure of relief, with wind and motion enough to offset the glaring sun, but it wasn’t enough to cure the burn on his skin. It was only made worse by the fact that Derek didn’t really seem to mind; or at least, he didn’t appear to be any crankier than usual.

            Stiles didn’t tell him what line they were in, and it wasn’t until halfway through it that Derek seemed to take an interest in where they were headed. Reaching out, Stiles grabbed his arm as Derek went to turn around. It was really too late; jumping out of line now would be a massive waste of time.

            “I said no water rides,” Derek hissed.

            Stroking down his arm, Stiles smiled reassuringly. “It’s okay, Derek,” he told him. “It’s just one ride. Come on, you’ve got to be dying in this heat with all that-” He motioned around to Derek’s body. “-hair.”

            Derek scowled. “I am not dying.”

            “Well I am. Do you want me to die, Derek? Do you want me to expire from heat exhaustion, and then you have to drag me back to the car and drive me home and explain to Scott why you couldn’t take one little water ride so I could get all wet.”

            Derek choked on the word, but Stiles just smiled.

            “Isn’t it cats that are scared of water?” Stiles asked a moment later. He could see where the end of the line was, and the log cars that people were slowly being loaded into. “Aren’t you supposed to be a wolf.”

            “Say it a little louder,” Derek snapped, agitated.

            “Aren’t you supposed-mmph!” Stiles struggled a little as Derek clamped a hand over his mouth, glaring. He gave Stiles a very significant look, the sort that said if he didn’t shut up they were going home, and Stiles rolled his eyes, but nodded. Derek peeled his hand away from Stiles’ mouth slowly.

            Stiles kept silent the rest of the line, though he squeezed in next to Derek when they were ready to load, and maybe he held his hand as the log drifted free of the guide line and into the slide. He could feel Derek’s heartbeat in his fingertips and he pressed a little closer, comforting.

            The moment the log dropped, shooting them down the slope and into the still water at the bottom, sending a spray up over their heads, soaking both of them completely through in freezing cold water, Stiles knew he was going to have to make up for this later.

            He didn’t care. At least he wasn’t so hot anymore.

            Well, at least not from the weather.


	149. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek: Only in Vegas

            Stiles had seen him the moment he walked in the door, shoulders a little hunched, a scowl on his face. Gorgeous, but surly. He had seen the type; he knew the guy would walk past the slot machines and the bright lights. He would find a table with fresh meat, someone who hadn’t been playing long, and he would play them. Not the game- the person. And he would leave with money. Not a lot, not enough to get noticed or in trouble somehow, but enough.

            He just wasn’t expecting it to be his table.

            The guy slid into the seat to Stiles’ left, pale eyes catching on Stiles’ for a moment before nodding down in acceptance of a hand. The couple in front of Stiles looked over at him with curiosity, a little surprised to be joined, and the guy flashed them a charming smile that wobbled Stiles’ legs a little. His shift was over in an hour; maybe he could keep the stranger here that long. Maybe he could-

            “Going to deal?” the guy asked, and Stiles was suddenly very, very glad for the clamor of the casino around them because the tiny involuntary noise that escaped him was well covered. That voice. He dealt  the cards and watched the guy smooth his fingers over them before lifting.

            It was an easy few games before the nice couple that had been keeping Stiles company got fed up with losing money and left. Stiles stared after them for a second before turning back to the guy. “You could have kept them for at least another few hands,” he pointed out. There was no reason for him to lie; they both knew what the stranger was capable of.

            But he just shrugged. “Maybe I wanted you to myself…. Stiles?”

            Stiles didn’t flinch; he knew his name was on his tag. “That’s hardly possible here….?” he trailed off, obviously asking for a name.

            “Derek,” the guy supplied. He picked up one of the cards, flipping it over so that it was red-side-up, and then plucked the pen from Stiles’ side of the table. He jotted down a set of numbers, neat and orderly, and then slid the card across the table to him.

            Swallowing, Stiles plucked up the card and tucked it into his pocket. He caught Derek’s eye and there was that smile again, brilliant and warm. “I get off in an hour,” he managed.

            “We’ll see,” Derek said, smirking. Then he was wandering back out the same way he’d come, and Stiles was thanking whoever was listening that he worked in Vegas.


	150. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek: Derek proposing

            It has to be perfect.

            He’s planned it for weeks now, gotten more than enough strange looks from Stiles because of his behavior. For once, Scott had been helping him, keeping Stiles from asking too many questions. Isaac had joined in once he realized what was going on, and between the two of them they had kept Stiles at bay through the last stages of planning.

            There was only so much planning that could be done, though.

            That’s how he found himself nervously tapping on Stiles’ father’s door. The sheriff had been occupying Stiles for the early part of the day so that he couldn’t find a way to weasel out of staying as long as his father wanted.

            When the sheriff drew open the door, he didn’t scowl. He didn’t look surprised, he just let Derek in with a sweep of his hand. Derek swallowed nervously, fiddling with the cuff links of his suit, and stepped over the threshold.

            Stiles was sitting in the dining room, dressed too nicely for the homey atmosphere of his father’s home. “Derek?” he asked, scrambling to his feet the moment he saw him. “What are you doing- what are you wearing?”

            Derek was immediately uncomfortable. “A suit,” he commented dryly. He held out his hand. “Come on. Your dad’s been keeping an eye on you for me.”

            “Where are we going?” he asked suspiciously, though he put his hand in Derek’s.

            “Out,” Derek said cryptically.

            Though Stiles rolled his eyes, he followed Derek out of the house, down the drive, and into the Camaro. Odd, Stiles thought, because the Camaro had been in storage for the past two years. Something was definitely going on here.

            What was going on here was a dinner at one of the most expensive restaurants on their side of town. There was quiet music and soft lighting and menus without prices for food that was more aesthetically pleasing than some artwork Stiles had seen. Derek ordered wine, which was strange, because Derek didn’t usually drink wine, especially the sweet white wine that came. He even indulged in dessert with Stiles, splitting some chocolate concoction that was possibly the best thing Stiles had ever eaten.

            Their conversation was low and gentle, beneath the polite murmur of the crowd. Stiles could tell that Derek was nervous by the shifting of his body, the jerk of his hand while cutting his steak. Derek wasn’t quite looking at him, never more than a moment, and Stiles couldn’t help but be a little worried. They didn’t go to fancy restaurants. They didn’t order wine or talk softly.

            So when they left the restaurant, Stiles reached out and snagged Derek’s sleeve, heartbeat fluttering like a caged bird behind his ribs. “Is everything okay?” he breathed, knowing Derek would hear.

            Derek tipped his head. “It’s fine,” he assured Stiles. “Just… there’s someplace I want to take you. Is that okay?”

            “Yeah,” Stiles agreed, though it settled like lead in his belly. Derek never asked questions like that. But he let Derek open his car door for him, and he held Derek’s hand for the entire drive, even closing his eyes when Derek asked him to.

            When the car rolled to a stop, Stiles obediently kept his eyes closed. He listened to Derek get out, walk around the car, and open his door for him. When Derek’s hand slid into his, he took it, let him help him to his feet, steadying himself against Derek. The air smelled funny; metallic and decaying.

            He’d thought they were past the murdering each other stage.

            “Open them,” Derek said softly, and Stiles snapped his eyes open.

            In front of him sat his Jeep.

            He blinked.

            Then he blinked again, looking at Derek with owlishly wide eyes.

            “How did you even find her?” he breathed. “I scrapped her like three years ago.”

            “I picked her up the same day,” Derek told him. “Been fixing her since then. She’ll run good as new, for a long time.” He smiled nervously, and motioned back to the Camaro. “They always looked nice together.”

            “Derek…” Stiles whispered, but Derek was already reaching into his suit pants pocket, pulling out something Stiles couldn’t see.

            Carefully, Derek stepped into his space, plucking his hand from his side and turning it so his palm faced up. Stiles spread his fingers, opening his hand without being asked, and Derek smoothed his palm over the top of it. Stiles could feel the warm circle of metal pressed into his skin. He looked up, eyes meeting Derek’s.

            Leaning forward a little, Derek pressed his forehead to Stiles’ and took a deep breath. “Marry me,” he said softly. “And let’s take her for a long trip afterward. We’ll go to the mountains.”

            Stiles swallowed, shaking a little as he nodded. “Of course, Derek. Yes, of course.”


	151. Allison x Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scallison: Pottery, paint, mess

            Their first lesson had been a month ago, with twelve other people, in the back room of the art store just outside of town. There was a huge kiln in the basement, big enough for everyone in the class to roast their lumpy, misshapen pots and bowls together. Allison had been one of the fastest learners, very clever with her fingers, a fact which Scott knew a thing or two about. He wasn’t surprised she had a talent for it.

            His own bowl was uneven on the sides, his fingerprints marring the surface, little dips and crevices from where he had mashed the clay together. Allison hid her laughter behind her hand, but he could see it lighting up her eyes. He didn’t mind being worse at pottery if it meant he got to see her happy.

            “We should paint them,” she told him, holding the latest of their creations in her hands. When she looked up to him, eyes bright, he couldn’t have said no.

            Which was how they ended up on a plastic sheet in the basement of the art shop, smearing glaze and paint onto the surfaces of the two cups. Scott’s finesse had improved; his was nearly the same quality as Allison’s, although it was clear whose was whose. They had started with brushes, until Scott had dipped his fingers into the paint and streaked blue across Allison’s cheek.

            She gaped at him, unbelieving but still smiling, before she attacked him with the forest-green glaze. By the time they settled back into trying to get any sort of work accomplished the area was a mess, they were a mess, but they were both smirking. Scott was pretty sure he had blue paint on his teeth. He stole a glance at her from beneath lowered lashes, smirking.

            “What?” she asked, grinning back.

            “Nothing,” he told her nonchalantly, shrugging. When she huffed, he chuckled. “Just… you’re really cute in rainbow colors.”

            She rolled her eyes and flicked paint at him. “I’m cute all the time.”

            He found he couldn’t argue.


	152. Isaac x Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scisaac: Puppy, abandoned, shelter

            “We can’t,” Scott said softly, despite the way his hand fondled the silky ear of the puppy in Isaac’s arms. “My mom won’t let us keep her.”

            “Scott, she’s just a puppy,” Isaac breathed, shifting her a little in his arms. She blinked sleepily at him and yawned, tiny little puppy teeth gleaming. She was filthy and exhausted and she needed them. “Your mom didn’t kick  _me_  out.”

            “You’re not a puppy,” Scott argued, but he sighed. “Look, we can take her back for the night, get her cleaned up. My mom will make us take her to the shelter tomorrow though. Just so you know.”

            Isaac lifted the puppy up, nuzzled his nose into the top of her grimy, amber head. “We’ll see,” he said, giving Scott a little smile.


	153. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek: Loud, bounce, twerk

            Derek wasn’t entirely sure how he had been convinced to follow Stiles and the others to this particular club, nor how he had ended up in the middle of the of a teeming throng of people covering the dance floor. It was impossibly loud; he thought it would be impossibly loud even if he didn’t have better hearing than every other living creature rocking and bouncing and… and… whatever the hell was going on in the small group off to their right. It was a train wreck of hip motion that Derek was having a hard time peeling his eyes away from.

            “Derek!” Stiles shouted above the din. When he tore his gaze away, it fell on Stiles’ amused grin. He wondered if his utter bewilderment was showing or not. “It’s a dance floor, Derek, not a stand floor. Come on!”

            Scowling, Derek moved a little closer so that he did not have to shout. “I’m not dancing, Stiles.” He pointed toward the group of kids. “That is not dancing, either.”

            At that, Stiles laughed uproariously and shimmied right into Derek’s personal space, long fingers sliding over the jut of Derek’s hips, aligning their bodies. “That’s not dancing,” he said low, knowing Derek would hear now that they were so close. “That’s twerking. I’ll show you how to do that later.”

            Derek rolled his eyes, but he rubbed his cheek along Stiles, stubble scratching at his cheek. “Promise me you won’t, and I’ll dance with you.”

            Grinning, Stiles nodded. “It’s a deal.”


	154. Allison x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hand to Hand

            “Hold your elbow up,” Allison instructed firmly, demonstrating with her own.

            Stiles scowled and raised his elbow a little, then collapsed the pose all together. “This is ridiculous, Allison. You’ve been posing me for like an hour. I don’t even remember half the names for any of this.”

            “You do,” she countered, pursing her lips and giving him a hard stare. She knew he did; he had a memory like a steel trap.

            Rolling his eyes, Stiles brought his hands back up, holding them in approximately the correct defensive position for a frontal attack. “Fine, I do. But can we actually do something before I die of boredom?”

            “If it’s so boring, you can leave,” Allison warned, but she moved into her own position and made a pass at him. She went slower than if she was actually going to hurt him, giving him plenty of time to see the movement and block her. As gangly as he sometimes was, he blocked her fluidly, a look of concentration on his face. “Good.”

            She moved again, and he countered, and they began a slow dance across the open floor of the basement. When she moved forward, he moved back, and when she got too close to cornering him, he did as she had taught him and pushed back, forcing her to defend herself until he was in a position to move away from her again. He was a fast learner.

            Wondering how fast, she sped up, striking out at him in a way she hadn’t taught him. His counter was sloppy, but workable, and the face he made was priceless. Before he could do more than make a noise of protest, she attacked again, from another angle, forcing him backward. He didn’t have time to cope, his back hitting the wall as he blocked a quick snap of her fist. If she’d had a knife, he’d be bleeding or worse, but she didn’t; it was just her hand, pressed against his chest.

            “Nice,” Stiles panted, meeting her gaze. He brought one hand up, rested it over hers. “Looks like I’ve still got a lot to learn.”

            She swallowed, tugging gently at her hand, realizing how close they had gotten. He held on, just a little, just enough, and then released her with a smirk. “Yeah,” she agreed, voice a little strained. She hadn’t meant to get that close. “You want to come back tomorrow?”

            “End of the lesson?” Stiles asked softly, without moving from where he leaned against the wall. “Or time to go home?”

            She knew what she wanted, but she also knew how bad of an idea it was. “Time to go home, Stiles. I’ll see you tomorrow.”


	155. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek: Killing people together

            “Dude!” Stiles exclaimed, giving Derek an offended look. “That’s your own team! You can’t just shoot your own team, Derek!”

            “I think I did just shoot my own team,” Derek shot back. His character turned on screen, pointing its gun at Stiles. “Do you want to argue? We can test the theory again.”

            “Oh my god you are such an asshole,” Stiles said, but he was barely containing laughter. “Can we not?”

            “Stiles, I don’t even know what we’re doing,” Derek told him.

            “We’re killing people. We have to kill all the people, and take their flag,” Stiles instructed. “Which is over in their base.”

            “I killed people, and you said that was wrong,” Derek argued, glaring. He really hated this game. But he really liked winning it… or more specifically, really liked Stiles after Stiles had won it.

            “Okay,” Stiles amended, eyes still on the screen. “Don’t kill the blue people. Kill the red people.”

            “Whatever,” Derek mumbled, following Stiles’ character into the enemy base.


	156. Derek + Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Princess, unicorn, glitter
> 
> Where Derek has terrible friends.

            It wasn’t the worst decision of Derek’s life, because let’s face it, there was still Kate and Jennifer and Paige and Peter and… well, the list was long. But it was a fairly bad one, making a bet with Scott and Stiles over who could eat the most tacos. Apparently Stiles is a bottomless pit when it comes to hard-shell delicacies, and Scott was worse. Derek had completely underestimated the ability of teenage boys to put away food.

            Which is how he found himself seated at a small kids table, a princess hat on his head and glitter strewn on the cement around him. This was really not how he’d pictured this day going.

            Beside him, Peter sat watching, a plush unicorn horn strapped to his forehead. He was smirking, though, holding a tiny pink teacup in one hand, the matching saucer in the other. “Derek,” he said politely. “Have some tea. Maybe it will turn that frown upside down.”

            The suggestion only sent Scott and Stiles into another pealing fit of laughter and nothing about Derek’s intense scowl deterred them from both snapping photos with their cameras. Peter smiled for them. Derek continued thinking of all the various ways he was going to murder them in their sleep tonight. But he sighed, reached out, and picked up his teacup.

            Not the worst decision… but so very, very far from the best.


	157. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek; badly singing karaoke

            The entire place was too loud for Derek, too loud to hear himself think, too loud to hear anything over the beat of the music and the sound of the crowd singing along to the guy who was belting out a song Derek absolutely didn’t recognize at the top of his lungs. He didn’t have to know what it was to hate it.

            Beside him, Stiles tried to tell him something, plucking at his sleeve and pointing toward the stage. Derek did his best to block out the rest of the noise and focus on Stiles as he shouted back: “What?”

            “COME ON,” Stiles mouthed, finally grabbing his whole arm and trying to drag him away from the table. If Derek hadn’t wanted to move, Stiles would never have moved him, but there was very little Stiles could tell him to do that Derek wouldn’t oblige him.

            Except, he realized as they neared the stage, this.

            He dug his heels in, but it was too late; the stage manager was already passing him the soft-tipped mic and Stiles was shoving at him from behind telling him it’s just one song. One song his ass. He knew which song Stiles had picked without having to ask, and sure enough the first few notes began zinging through the air as Derek sighed and rolled his eyes. There was going to be serious payback tonight when they got home.

            Although, the smile on Stiles’ face was almost worth the first few words of the song as he growled them out: “Hey, I just met you…”


	158. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek, fingers, lasers, bottom!Derek

            Stiles drew one long, slender finger along the center of Derek’s chest, watching the way his pupils expanded, contracting as Stiles withdrew the touch. Smiling, Stiles reached over to the nightstand and lifted the little laser pointer. The chain clinked in the silence. With a thoughtful little hum, Stiles sat up, throwing one leg over both of Derek’s so that he was straddling his thighs.

           “Hands,” he ordered, but softly. There was no need to be firm yet; Derek was ready to listen. He watched as Derek presented both hands to him, and then smirked. “Perfect.” He rocked his hips a minute amount, just enough to draw a breathy noise from Derek. “You’re going to do the work. I’ll point… you touch.”


	159. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek + Dogs, fluff, exercising

            “I’m not walking that thing,” Derek tells him the first morning. “And if it keeps crying, I’m going to be making mutt for breakfast.”

            Stiles groaned, throwing one arm over his eyes and trying to block out the pitiful crying of the stray they had picked up the night before. It had just been sitting there outside the restaurant, looking lonely and it’s not like Derek had never taken in strays before, right? “It’s like six o’clock,” he reasoned in the general direction of the dog.

            “I don’t think it understands you, Stiles.” Derek pulled the pillow out from under his head and smacked Stiles in the face with it. “This was your idea, hotshot.”

            “I have bad ideas, you should tell me no,” Stiles groused, shoving the pillow back in Derek’s direction.

            Derek snorted. “Tell you no? I’ve made that mistake. Walk your dog.”

            “Our dog,” Stiles corrected him. “Henry.”

            “Its name is not Henry, Stiles, and it needs to be walked before it decides my apartment is a bathroom.” Derek began to shove at him with one arm, inching him closer to the edge of the bed.

            “Oh my god, I’m going!” Stiles exclaimed before he could be pushed entirely off the bed. He scrambled around in the covers and was immediately greeted by the tongue-flopping, tail-wagging monster they had brought home. He patted it on its head and couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “How bad can it be?”


	160. Allison & Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allison & Stiles: Future comparing weapons

“I can’t believe you still keep those things,” Stiles said, making a face as Allison fitted the throwing knives into one of her sleeves. “What does Isaac think of them?”

She shrugged, glancing up at him. “He’s over it.”

“You stabbed him with them like twenty times,” Stiles said, checking his thigh holster.

Rolling her eyes, she tossed him an extra clip. “And he healed,” she said tightly. “It’s not any worse than your wolfsbane bullets. I’m sure Derek’s thrilled you keep those around.”

“Hey,” Stiles said, pointing with his jagged-edged hunting knife. “I didn’t take that shot. That was Kate.”

“He almost died,” she said, raising an eyebrow at his excuse.

“I saved him, and I think we just established he healed as valid permission.” He sheathed the knife and clambered to his feet. “You got everything? We are gonna be late.”

She checked her coat, feeling her shoulder holster, then reached over one shoulder to touch upon her bow and quiver. Wiggling one boot and feeling the familiar weight, she nodded. “Yeah, you?”

He pulled back his jacket, revealing a tool belt of weapons Allison would never use; wolfsbane, mountain ash, little bottles with molotov cocktails mixed inside, and a tiny super-sonic emitter that would startle off most supernatural creatures with better hearing than the average human. “Yeah, let’s go.”


	161. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek: S’mores, nervous, warm

            The fire crackled before them, burning low but hot. “This is the perfect temp for s’mores,” Stiles informed Derek seriously, sliding first one marshmallow and then another onto the metal roasting stick. “Some people do it over open flame, but they’re wrong.”

            “I don’t think there’s a wrong way to cook a marshmallow on a fire,” Derek said skeptically. “You put it on a stick, you put it in the fire, you pull it out again.”

            “Oh my god, you really were raised by wolves,” Stiles said, shooting him a scandalized look. “First of all, there is far more to it. If you just stick it in the fire, you’re gonna burn it. You don’t want to burn it. You want to toast it. I know you don’t know what toast is because your toaster only makes warm bread or charcoal bricks, but the rest of us have learned and I’m going to teach you tonight.”

            Derek rolled his eyes with a low groan. “Do we really have-”

            “Yes,” Stiles interrupted. “It’s a crime that you haven’t had a s’more before. Here.” He passed over the stick, which Derek grudgingly took, and then began setting up his own.

            For a moment, Derek watched him, until he levered the stick forward and stopped just shy of the piping-hot embers. When Stiles motioned for him to follow suit, he placed his own marshmallows into the pit, a little farther away. It was stupid, he knew it was stupid, but he was actually nervous about this. It wasn’t a big deal, not in the big wide world, but for whatever reason it mattered to Stiles, and that meant it mattered to Derek.

            “The goal is to keep it just close enough that the outside gets crispy but the inside melts,” Stiles told him, watching Derek’s marshmallows more closely than his own. “Sometimes you have to rotate the stick to get it to cook evenly.”

            Derek obeyed, unaware of his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth a little as he focused on rotating the marshmallows, trying to get them just right. Stiles was watching over his shoulder and it wasn’t long before he declared them both finished. He grabbed Derek’s stick first, sliding the marshmallows off the end and onto the already-prepared graham crackers and chocolate. He smashed the other half of the graham cracker onto the concoction and handed it over to Derek.

            “Tada,” he said, as Derek took a bite.

            There was no way Derek was going to admit to the full amount of happiness the treat brought as he bit into the warm, gooey mess, but he thought perhaps Stiles already knew.


	162. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek: Thunder, Irrational, calm

            The first time Stiles visited the loft during a thunderstorm, he found Derek locked in the bathroom. There was cardboard taped over the small window, and all of the bedding from the entire house was piled in the bathtub. He had considered asking why, but it didn’t seem relevant when he could tell Derek was trembling regardless of how much nonchalance he was trying to portray.

            “I’m not leaving,” Stiles interrupted in the middle of whatever excuses Derek was trying to make involving the laundromat being closed.

            “You should,” Derek told him, but it was weak at best.

            Stiles raised both eyebrows, closing the door behind him as he moved all the way into the cramped bathroom. “I’m sure you’re aware of exactly how keen I am on doing what I should.” He settled his gaze on Derek, who took an almost nervous seat on the edge of the tub. “So what’s going on?”

            “Thunder,” Derek said quietly. As if to emphasize the point, lightning crackled outside, followed by a boom that shook the walls. It was a bad night to be out.

            “You’re scared of thunder or something?” Stiles asked, trying desperately not to laugh.

            “No,” Derek said hotly, glaring. He shifted uncomfortably. “It’s very, very loud. I have very sensitive hearing, and it’s very loud.”

            “Does it hurt?” Stiles asked, worried now. He wondered if he should have been keeping Scott company during storms all this time.

            “It’s just… loud,” Derek said, sounding miserable. “I don’t know. It sets me on edge.”

            Smiling softly, Stiles took a seat beside him. “Okay, so, maybe you just need something else to listen to. Maybe we can get you a pair of noise-canceling headphones or something.” He held out one hand and Derek tentatively took it, looking up uncertainly.

            “That… might work,” Derek conceded, offering a hesitant smile. Another boom of thunder sounded outside, but his hand was steady in Stiles’ now.

            “Good,” Stiles declared. Gently, he leaned over and rested his head on Derek’s shoulder. “You can just tell someone, now, you know. If there’s a problem. You don’t have to lock yourself in the bathroom with a pillow fort.”

            “It’s not a pillow fort,” Derek grumbled, but he leaned back.


	163. Superwolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek totals the Camaro, and must buy a new, different car.

            Derek never thought he’d see her like this; hauled up on the back of a truck, front end mangled, leaking the lifeblood fluids that had kept her purring under his hands. The smell of scorched metal, the fuel, the blood from where Stiles had banged his head against the dash when they’d been hit- it was making his stomach do a flip flop that left him a little dizzy.

 _Totaled_ , they’d told him. _She’ll never drive again._

            Except that it was his _Camaro_ , and it had been his _mother’s_ _Camaro_ before it was his and he couldn’t just let her go like that. After making sure that Stiles was okay - just a mild concussion and a seatbelt bruise across his chest, though they were keeping him overnight at his father’s insistence - he’d started to make calls. To everyone, to every mechanic he could find in the yellow pages. Every one of them, even the one that advertised they would fix anything, had told him to cut his losses and just take the insurance. He could get any car he wanted off the insurance payout, they told him.

            But he didn’t want _any_ car, he wanted _his_ car back, whole and as beautiful as she had been.

            Salvation, as it happened, was down a road Derek would never have looked. It walked in through Stiles’ hospital room door, trailing after Scott and Allison, in the form of Chris Argent. It came on a small slip of paper, printed in blue ink and neat handwriting.

_Dean Winchester  
1-866-907-3235_

            Derek looked up, but Chris just shrugged and said: “Kid of a Hunter I knew once. Real good with cars. I would advise you not tell him about your… _condition_ when you call.”

            Of course Derek didn’t like it, at all, but he was desperate and he’d had stranger allies, so he gave the number a ring after he drove Stiles home in the Jeep. The guy that picked up had a deep, gruff voice and when Derek started to explain that he just _couldn’t_ give up on his car, she was his baby, she’d belonged to his mother that he’d lost, Dean agreed to fix it before he even finished.

            The guy gave him an address, in Colorado, and it was a little expensive to have the Camaro driven all the way out there in a truck, but Derek didn’t think twice about it. He got it loaded and he took her there himself, and when he shook Dean’s hand, the Hunter gave him a smile and told him how many times he had put his 1967 Chevy Impala back into working order when she should have gone to the grave. Derek didn’t want to trust him, but Dean's Impala was a thing of beauty and anyway he didn’t have a choice. So he smiled, and he left, and he promised himself he wouldn’t call three times a day like a worried father leaving his kid with a babysitter for the first time. He even succeeded the first day.

            There was no way Derek was going about daily life without a car, and so when he returned to Beacon Hills, his second stop was to a rental car dealership. There were plenty to choose from, but all of them were not _right_. This one wasn’t sleek enough, that one not the right color, the next had the wrong sort of steering wheel. It wasn’t until Stiles’ terrible _Who Let the Dogs Out_ ringtone jangled from his phone, until Stiles was grumbling in his ear _Just pick one it’s only for a couple of weeks, Derek_ that Derek chose. A squat little black Rav 4, brand spanking new.

            It was kind of ugly, he thought as he ran a hand over the hood. The key felt wrong in his hand, with its little wire keychain and paper tag declaring which dealership it belonged to. He grumbled that the growl of the engine starting was not right either, but he put it in gear and he left anyway.

            The others made fun of him, when they saw it. Stiles cracked up so hard that he choked, and when he had finally recovered, he caught sight of it again and started over. Derek didn’t manage to pry the phone out of the curl of Stiles’ body around it as he texted incoherent keymashing and photos to Scott, who sent incoherent keymashing back that Derek could only assume meant Scott was laughing as well. They were the same letters, and Derek suspected they stood for words, but he didn’t ask.

            Instead, he let Boyd make small cracks about soccer moms and Isaac ask whether or not they were going to be adopting kids, if that’s what packs did or something.

            The thing was, no one wanted to admit that they sort of liked the new car. Isaac and Boyd were able to stretch their legs out in the front seat, and when Isaac took it out for groceries they actually all fit, even though he bought extra produce because it was on sale. Stiles didn’t say a word about the spacious backseat, which may have had something to do with the shaky, babbling mess to which Derek reduced him to in it the first weekend they took the car out alone. Isaac suggested that at least now it smelled more like the Camaro. Derek gave him a knock to the head harder than he should have the next time they were practicing evasion techniques.

            In all, it wasn’t a bad car. The entire pack fit when they went out to the movies, and Derek didn’t dare tell any of them how good that felt. He took note of the way Isaac leaned his head on Boyd’s shoulder while Boyd played with his phone in the backseat, Cora snuggled into his other side like she had always belonged. He filed away the warmth of Stiles’ hand in his as they drove to consider later.

            Peter took her out for a spin one night in the second week, and he came back singing her praises. “She’s got cruising in her blood, Derek,” he told him, tossing the key back to him. “You sure you don’t want to keep her?”

            Derek scowled, but he didn’t answer, because there was a tiny part of him that _did_ want to keep her, and he felt guilty as hell about it. He felt guilty for thinking that this was a better family vehicle, that the pack might like it better, that it lent a sense of home and security. He hated that he found himself thinking that the Camaro meant _mother_ _,_ but it also meant _running_ and _hiding_. It meant he was clinging to a past that _hurt_ and he felt guilty for thinking maybe it was time to _stop_ hurting and move on.

            So when Dean’s phone call came, Derek let it switch to voice-mail because he wasn’t ready to hear _come get her_.

            Stiles found the voicemail a couple of days later when he was snooping through Derek’s phone, and Derek steeled himself for the order to ‘go get her’. But Stiles just sat on the edge of Derek’s bed, phone held loosely in his palm, amber-brown eyes tracking over Derek’s slouched form. Derek could hear his heart picking up and slowing down and he knew Stiles was preparing himself to say something he thought Derek might object to. It wasn’t what Derek expected, though.

            “You don’t have to,” Stiles told him softly. Derek’s eyes rose to meet his. “You could keep the Rav and put the Camaro in storage someplace for your mid life crisis or something.”

            Derek swallowed thickly, stunned that he hadn’t thought of that. He didn’t _have_ to give up one or the other. There was a storage unit on the outskirts of town that took vehicles, and the dealership he rented the Rav4 could easily find a new one to sell him. He reached over, slipping his phone from Stiles’ long fingers with a grateful smile that went all the way to his heart. He pressed a gentle kiss to Stiles’ cheek before he dialed Dean’s number.

            Dean was brief, telling him that she fixed up easy and he couldn’t match the old paint so the black was slightly different, but he did the whole car so it doesn’t show. He quoted Derek a price, which Derek readily agreed to, and they arranged a time for Derek to stop by and get her. He felt as if a weight had been hauled off his shoulders, and the sentiment was clear enough that Stiles began to smile as well.

            “Well?” Stiles asked when he’d hung up.

            Derek nodded, taking a deep breath. “Going to go get her this weekend.”

            Stiles broke into a high-beam smile and hopped up from the edge of the bed. “Fantastic! You’re going to let me drive her home.”

            It wasn’t a question, but Derek didn’t argue.


	164. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Major character death
> 
> To go alongside [this set](http://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/30518282154) of artwork images.

            Stiles stayed huddled beneath the roots of the upturned tree until the noise had cleared, until the sounds of the night returned, replaced the howls, the jeering, the snarls bit out after every crackle of electricity. It was damp and musty in the almost-den, not easing the cramps in his muscles from being strung too tight for too long. The silence, broken only by the faint creak of crickets, the faint call of an owl in the distance, was almost deafening, wrapping around him like a vice and he had to move or it might strangle him.  
  
            Slowly he uncurled from the ball of nerves he had become, pulled himself from the furrow in the earth where Derek had sequestered him.  
  
 _Stay,_ he had commanded. _No matter what you hear, no matter what happens, **do not leave.**_  
  
            Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, throat closing, muscles seizing. He should have pulled Derek in with him. Should have insisted they run. The hunters had caught them once, some of them, away from the group, had hurt them, hurt Stiles, but Derek had beaten them, had gotten away with Stiles. They could have run. The hunters wouldn’t have found them, so why did he not run?  
  
            But Stiles knew why.  
  
            He knew, as well as Derek had, that the ones who had caught them were only a few of the ones combing the woods that night. _An Alpha_ echoed the trees, chasing the words of the hunters through their branches. The men didn’t want Stiles, but they’d have taken him too if they’d caught him with Derek. So Derek had done the only thing he could- he’d lead them off, lead them away from his mate. Because they were trapped, and Derek _knew._  
  
            Numbly, Stiles stepped around the edge of the fallen tree, faced the break in the rows of trees where they had caught his mate. He hadn’t gotten far, had hidden Stiles just in time. The scent of blood hung metallic in the air as he approached, crossed the threshold of the woods onto the small path.  
  
            Some part of him was aware of the tears running tracks through the dirt on his cheeks, aware of the way they gathered in the scrape along his jaw from the fist of a hunter, but all he could feel was how numb everything was. How nothing mattered but the boy that hung by his hands in front of Stiles, suspended from a branch. Blood smeared the skin of his beautiful face, painting over the bruises that would never heal. Nothing would ever heal again- not for Derek. Not for Stiles.  
  
            “I’m sorry,” he breathed, unable to raise his voice past the lump in his throat, one slender hand reaching for the sword that blossomed from Derek’s chest. “I shouldn’t have let you die alone.”


	165. Scott & Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "SOMEONE NEEDS TO WRITE WEE!SCOTT AND WEE!STILES GETTING “ARRESTED” FOR THE FIRST TIME."

            The pack of cookies lay between them on the worn, wooden floor of their tree house, unopened. Their eyes were bright with adrenaline as they panted, just staring at one another as though they couldn’t believe they had actually gotten away with it. This was the jackpot. This was a brand new package of sweet, delicious chocolate chip cookies and they had it _all to themselves_.

            Scott swallowed his next breath and grinned. “Do you think your mom saw us?”

            Little golden eyes rolling, Stiles reached for the package. “No way,” he told his best friend. “We’re too good.”

            Swiping the package from Stiles’ hands because he knew how horrible Stiles was at opening anything neatly, Scott popped open their prize. He slid out the plastic tray inside and offered first dibs to Stiles. “Your dad’s gonna notice it’s gone,” he said slowly.

            Stiles selected a cookie from the middle of the row and walked the fingers of both hands all the way around its edge before popping it halfway into his mouth. He pondered on that idea for a moment, and then shrugged. “What’s he gonna do, _arrest us_?”

            Right on queue, flashing blue and red lights brightened the tree house and his father’s voice came over a megaphone. “All right boys, come out with your hands up- and no funny business.”

            Scott’s eyes went dinner-plate wide as Stiles dropped the other half of his cookie. Scott flung the cookie package away from himself as if it had bitten him. “Your dad’s going to arrest us!” he squeaked.

            “Oh my god!” Stiles said, grabbing onto Scott’s shoulders. “Look, I’ll draw him off ok? You run for it. You can get out the back window right?”

            “Y-yeah,” Scott stuttered. “My mom is going to be so mad! I didn’t know you could get arrested for stealing cookies!”

            He looked ready to cry, and so Stiles rolled his eyes and pulled him into a hug. “You aren’t going to get arrested,” he told him firmly before letting him go. “Cause I’m gonna protect you!”

            “Boys,” Stiles’ father warned over the megaphone. “Don’t make me get your mother, Stiles.”

            Stiles winced, and gave his best friend a look. Scott nodded, clambering to his feet, and began to head for the window escape at the back of their fort. Stiles squared his shoulders and peeked his head out the front of the tree house. His dad was there, watching him with the _you’re grounded_ face, and Stiles waved both his hands in the air to show he was unarmed.

            “Hi, Dad.”

            “Stiles,” his father greeted, motioning around with one hand. “And where is your partner in crime?”

            “He went home,” Stiles lied. “Like an hour ago.”

            “Oh he did, did he?” his father asked him, in the tone that said he was definitely sure that wasn’t true. “I suppose that’s not him climbing down the rope back there?”

            Stiles leaned over, upside down out of the tree house until he could see his friend getting tangled in the rope ladder behind the fort. Stiles rolled his eyes and looked back to his dad. “Define _climbing_ …”

            “Get down here,” his father told him. “And bring my cookies.”

            Sighing, Stiles reached behind him and snagged the cookie package from behind him, then carefully descended the ladder nailed into the tree trunk. Scott met him at the bottom with the guiltiest of guilty expressions, but Stiles merely bumped his shoulder. “It’s ok,” he murmured under his breath.

            When they reached his father, the deputy took each of them by the shoulder, pausing only to have Stiles set the box of cookies down on the kitchen table as they walked through the house. Stiles made dramatic, pained noises at the rough handling while Scott very nearly hung limp in the deputy’s grasp. When they reached the police cruiser, Stiles dug in his heels.

            “I want to hear my miranda rights!” he said stubbornly, a light behind his eyes. He could say them by heart, maybe better than his father, and sometimes instead of a bedtime story he asked his father to recite those to him, to make sure his dad remembered them too.

            “Stiles,” his father warned. “Get in the car.”

            “I have the right to remain silent-”

            “But not the ability,” his father lamented, scooping him up and putting him into the backseat of the cruiser. Scott joined him willingly, but poked his head back out before the door could close.

            “Are you going to tell my mom I got arrested?” he asked worriedly.

            The deputy took a deep breath and lay his arms along the top of the car door, rested his chin upon them to regard the two boys. “Do the two of you realize how serious an offense stealing is?” he asked.

            Both boys nodded their heads, although Stiles’s nod was a bit more reluctant.

            “So you won’t ever do it again?” asked the deputy, looking at each of them in turn.

            Again, both boys nodded, Stiles much more vigorously this time.

            “Do you solemnly swear to stay away from my cookies, forever and ever?” he asked.

            “I don’t even like cookies anymore,” Stiles told him very seriously.

            “Me either!” Scott quipped squeakily. “Maybe we’ll never eat cookies again!”

            “Mhmm,” Stiles’ father said, clearly not convinced. But he stood up straight and opened the door just as the front door to the house cracked open. “I suppose I don’t have to arrest you if you _promise_ to never steal my cookies again.”

            “We promise!” both boys swore in unison.

            “Okay, then,” he told them, motioning to the open front door to the house, where stood Stiles’ mother, watching with a soft smile on her face. “But you’ll have to get past your mom.”

            Stiles swallowed and shrank back into the back seat of the cruiser. “Are you sure we can’t get arrested?” he asked.

            His dad just laughed.


	166. Chapter 166

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mature content. NSFW.
> 
> Based off of [this post](http://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/79165393453). There is a second part to this, written by ChasingShhadows, located at the linked location.

            Sometimes… sometimes there are nights when Derek remembers how it feels to be a beta. Sometimes when Stiles whispers softly against the shell of his ear, he remembers the feel of submission. He remembers how to bare his throat, eyes closed and breathing shallow as he waits to be commanded.

            Those are the nights that Stiles takes his time. The nights when his palms smooth over Derek’s skin in the wake of his clothing. He can feel the flex of muscles beneath Derek’s skin everywhere his fingers touch, everywhere he presses his soft lips to the heat of Derek’s body. He traces every line he can find, in a pattern, like a map, and Derek writhes, hips lifting into Stiles’ hands as they wander ever lower.

            Stiles huffs a laugh, because Derek isn’t even aware he’s doing it, arching his back, seeking more, seeking contact, seeking _Stiles_. “At least its not your hands again,” Stiles murmurs, thumbs following the line of Derek’s cock over his underwear. The noise Derek makes is almost unfair enough to make Stiles give in, to let Derek ignore the order to keep his hands at his sides.

            To _let_ Stiles do whatever he pleases.

            To _take_ commands for once, let go of his _responsibility_.

            “Stiles,” Derek groans and whether it’s a demand or a plea it’s broken over how badly he needs this. The firm drag of Stiles’ nails over the cut of his hips is not helping.

            A smile curves Stiles’ lips and Derek can feel it against the line of his inner thigh. “I love when you’re like this,” Stiles tells him, warm breath feathering across Derek’s skin. “Pliant,” he adds and delights in the twitch of Derek’s hips.

            Derek’s breath hitches when he feels Stiles’ tongue, when he feels the way Stiles mouths at the fabric keeping them apart, runs his nose along Derek’s length, hands sliding back up. When he feels the scrape of nails at the edge of the cloth, he meets Stiles’ golden-brown eyes, watching the blaze of desire behind that gaze as Stiles watches him. Stiles tugs gently and Derek’s hips lift almost of their own accord, in response to the silent command.

            His last vestiges of clothing disappear over Stiles’ shoulder.

            “Better,” Stiles almost hums a moment before his mouth descends.


	167. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on [this gifset](http://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/35539497395).

            Derek traced the line of the chain with his lips, soft and light, careful not to move it from where it lay against Stiles' skin. It ran the perfect line along the edge of his throat, down over his collarbone, ending at the small, silver pendant over his sternum, over his heart. Stiles closed his eyes, hummed low and needy when Derek pressed his lips over the pendant for just an instant, touched his nose to Stiles' chest.

            “I didn’t think you’d actually wear it,” Derek murmured, warm breath feathering over his skin.

            Stiles shivered at the sensation. “You told me to,” he answered.

            He felt Derek's smile even if he couldn’t see it. “Do you always do as you’re told?”

            Stiles smiled, carded his long fingers through Derek's dark hair and tipped his head to one side just a little. “Do you want to find out?”


	168. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Zainclaw and Greenbergsays, who were discussing Sterek in Autumn.

            “It’s apple pie, Derek,” Stiles told him, nudging the plate a little closer. Steam roiled into the air from the piping hot slice.

            “I know what it is,” Derek snapped back, though gently. Of course he knew what it was, everyone knew what pie was. “It’s just…”

            It’s just that it had been years, almost a decade, since anyone had baked him pie.

            Not just bought him pie, not baked it for an occasion, not brought him leftovers, not snatched from a group gathering.

            Someone honest-to-god just baking a pie for him because he liked them.

            And he didn’t know how to put that into words, so he just-

            “Thank you,” he said softly.

            Stiles tipped his head, probably at the heavy note of sincerity in his voice. “Dude it’s just pie,” he said, waving one hand dismissively as he wedged the edge of his fork into his own slice to section off a bite.

            It wasn’t  _just pie_ , Derek thought as he took the first bite, but Stiles couldn’t possibly know that, and maybe that was part of the warm, fuzzy feeling, too. That Stiles wasn’t even trying, he made Derek happy just by existing, just by doing all that he normally would do. Stiles was just being  _Stiles,_  and it was everything Derek could have wanted.

            Smiling around his bite of pie, Stiles huffed a little laugh. “Next time I’ll make pumpkin.”

            Derek returned his smile. Maybe not everything; Stiles was  _more._


	169. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very fluffy sterek. Maybe Derek comes to his apartment to find a very drunk Stiles (who has drank all of derek's hidden alcohol btw) complaining about Scott and Isaac's new friendship. One thing leads to another and sterek ends up cuddling.

He smells him the moment he walks in the door, nearly washed out with the smell of Jack and... and is that Soco? Making a face, Derek sheds his jacket and hangs it on the shabby iron peg near the door. He tips his head, listening for the heartbeat as he moves into his apartment. It's sluggish, and he thinks Stiles has probably passed out or at least fallen asleep.

            Sure enough, Derek finds him in the kitchen, leaning up against one of the cupboards, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand. He stirs when Derek nudges him and begins mumbling so thickly Derek can't understand most of it, except Scott's name. Rolling his eyes, Derek crouches and slips the bottle from Stiles' hand, taking it easily even when Stiles begins to grasp at it and protest. His eyes are gummy with sleep as he cracks them open to glare at Derek.

            "S'yer fault," Stiles slurs at him, pulling his hand away from Derek's as Derek reaches for it. His head makes a hollow clunking noise as it hits the cupboards.

            "What's my fault?" Derek asks, humoring him as he ignores Stiles' flinchy body protests and scoops him into his arms. He's lighter than Derek expected.

            "Isaac," Stiles tells him, and when Derek hesitates he can't tell if it's because of the name or the way Stiles wraps an arm around his neck and buries in face against his chest. His next words are muffled by Derek's shirt, but he hears them all the same. "You made him all sexy and now he took my best friend. He was _my_ best friend." Stiles pauses and Derek can hear his heartbeat rush and then slow as Stiles' fingers curl into his shirt. He can smell the tears.

            "He's still your friend," Derek assures him quietly as he moves across the loft. "He'll always be your friend."

            Stiles makes a rough, bitchy noise of irritation in the back of his throat. "H'likes Isaac more," he bites out, digging the tips of his fingers into the pad of Derek's shoulder, not quite enough to hurt. The sigh he let out suggests the weight of the entire world is pretty damn heavy.

            Derek is glad Stiles can't see his eye roll the moment before he gently deposits Stiles on his bed. There's no way he's driving Stiles home to the sheriff because that was Derek's bottle of Jack and Stiles is in no state to drive himself out of the parking lot much less back to Beacon Hills proper. Stiles flops onto his back as Derek disappears and returns a moment later with a glass of water, which he presses into Stiles' hands. Stiles watches in mild confusion as Derek shucks his shoes and moves around to the other side.

            "What're you do'en?" Stiles asks, his words slurring into a yawn.

            "It's two in the morning, Stiles. I'm going to sleep." He doesn't pull back the covers, just stretches out on top of them while Stiles watches. "I suggest you drink that and do the same."

            Stiles looks at the water in his hands like he has no idea what it is, but he sits up a little and downs the entire glass. He doesn't see Derek watching every gulp. When he is done, he sets the glass on the floor and without any warning at all, wriggles his way over to Derek's side of the bed.

            "Stiles," Derek says, and the name is an argument more than anything else.

            "Derek," Stiles answers, like a stern rebuttal and Derek really doesn't feel like arguing with a drunk teenager. It won't go anywhere useful.

            "I'm sorry about Scott," he offers instead, and Stiles snakes an arm over his belly and curls into Derek's side.

            "Go to sleep," Stiles tells him, closing his eyes, Derek's heartbeat a steady rhythm under his fingers, thumping in his ears. He doesn't want to talk about Scott.

            Derek just sighs and threads his fingers into Stiles' as he closes his eyes.


	170. Hale Family Feels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day Derek arrives in the world.

            She lay in the hospital bed, eyes closed, paying close attention to just breathing, to just being aware. In the hall there were nurses and doctors and patients, visitors and family. Especially her family, her mate and her firstborn. She couldn't gather enough threads of focus to understand what Jeremy was saying to her doctor, but she knew that they were talking, could pick his smooth, deep rumble out of the clamor. All around her his scent mingled with the rest, of the doctor, the nurses, the blood and the baby.

            The baby...

            They'd taken him.

            She opened her eyes and her mate was in the room in an instant, catching her hand as she lifted it to begin to sit. His other hand pressed into her chest to keep her from rising. "No, Talia," he told her firmly. "Lay back."

            She let him push her down, even though her panic nearly strangled her. "Derek," she told him frantically, needing him to understand. They'd just _taken_ him.

            "He's _fine_ ," he assured her. "They'll bring him back in a moment. You need to rest."

            Looking up, looking into his pale eyes, she forced herself to trust him. Even as she did so, the door to the room opened and a nurse slipped through, a small bundle of blue blankets in her arms. She was full of hesitant smiles, trundling over to her bed and carefully, so very carefully, turning the bundle so that she could see the tiny, pink face nestled within it.

            "Sorry for the wait," the nurse said. "We had to make sure he was ok. He was so quiet..."

            "Is he ok?" she asked, holding out her hands for the child. Her child.

            "He's fine," the nurse said, her hands over the top of Talia’s to steady her grip. "You're both fine. Perfectly healthy."

            She tucked the bundle close to her body, pulled down the edge of the blanket with one finger. Stirring at the motion, the baby opened dark blue eyes, looked up at her silently. She smiled, and the baby's face crinkled, mouth opening with a small noise. Her gaze sought her mate's eyes, and he nodded, began to usher the nurse from the room, asking questions about when they could leave and was he allowed to bring his wife food and drink?

            Almost as soon as they were gone, the door cracked open and the small form of a child wriggled in. She hesitated, not sure if she had permission to be entering this temporary den, but her mother waved her over, motioned to the heavy armchair that sat beside the bed. Laura pushed and pulled it until it sat beside the bed, until she could clamber atop it and see what was in her mother's arms.

            "How come he's not a wolf?" she asked as soon as the baby's face was visible to her.

            Her mother just smiled. "Until he's a little older, he'll take whatever form I take," she told her daughter.

            Laura frowned. "He's not very cute," she told her mother frankly. "He's all... wrinkly."

            Laughing, her mother scooped her onto the bed with one arm, snuggled her down along her side, the baby across her chest. "He'll change, as he grows. You looked like this too, you know. But you were an awfully cute puppy."

            "I'm still a cute puppy," Laura stated. "Dad says so." She tilted her chin up, flexed so that she could look at the baby again. "What's his name anyway?"

            "Derek," their mother said fondly, and there was no mistaking the softness in her voice for anything but boundless love. She tilted the baby so that the children could see one another. "Derek, this is your big sister, Laura."

            Derek yawned, squinched his face as he closed his eyes tightly, and then relaxed. Laura pursed her lips, dark eyes roaming over the tiny face of her newborn brother. Finally she snuggled her head into her mother's side, closed her eyes and said: "I guess he can stay."


	171. Deaton + The Hale Pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Alan Deaton interacting with the Hale Pack.

              The tone of the doorbell awoke the pile of wolves curled in the expansive family room. Along the edge, a silvery-grey head rose, turned her attention toward the front door of the manor. Before she rose, she snuffled two small balls of fur, one larger than the other, close to the massive black wolf at her side. He shifted so as to have one paw on either side of the pups and watched as she rose, stretched. The pack watched as she padded to the door, tugged on the handle; it had been left ajar less than an inch, an invitation the boy behind the door had been too polite to take.

            Standing there, hands loosely behind his back, stood a boy of maybe twenty years. His dark, curly hair was cut close to his head, as was the scruff of beard on his chin. Dark eyes, dark skin, dark jacket, dark jeans; everything about him, perhaps, except the smile which lit his face at the sight of her standing before him.

            His smile at the wolf was a soft, slightly lopsided motion accompanied by a bow of just his head and shoulder. "Mrs. Hale," he greeted, voice low and smooth.

            Withdrawing from the entrance, she returned the gesture and trotted away from him, leading him to the rest. The pack was rising, yawning great toothy yawns, stretching languidly, nipping at one another with the rumblings of anticipation. The full moon was tonight, and they could feel the setting of the sun in their bones, crackling across their fur.

            The hunt was near.

            At the edge of the room he paused, waited politely for the Pack to finish waking. There were six adults, along with two adolescents and five pups, all beautiful, all completely deadly. Though most of them were the same deep black as the Alpha, two of the pups were burnished red to match their mother (visitors, he noted to himself) and one of the adolescents was a strange yellowish-white. Albino, he noted as it turned pale bluish-red eyes to him. There were faint grey outlines of dots on his nose that would have given him a beautiful spotty nose if he'd had any color.

            He was pleased to see them all in full wolf form. It meant they were happy, safe. Their more powerful half-transformations were reserved for when they were threatened or sick, as they had been when he had first been brought to the Den. "Brought" being a loose term, he thought mildly, as the Alpha's mate had dragged him screaming and terrified through the woods by the scruff of his jacket. That had been a night of enlightenment for him. It could have gone the other way so easily.

            "Good evening," he greeted them when more than half had turned their attention to him. The words instantly drew the attention of four of the five pups who all cavorted toward him with glee. He crouched, then allowed himself to be bowled over by their enthusiasm, one hand shooting out to steady his fall. "It's good to see you too!"

            Laura scrabbled up his chest, licking his chin before he could stop her, and he laughed as the rest of the Pack pressed in close as well. He was again astounded by just how much _larger_ they were than the dogs he worked with, or even the real wolves he had helped treat during his graduate studies. Of course the wolves they had darted and weighed and tagged had been large, had had intelligence behind their eyes, but these before him were different creatures. The blue and gold and black eyes that surrounded him now were other worldly, ancient, humanly intelligent.

            These were _werewolves,_ he reminded himself, and they wore the shape of humans for the rest of the month. He had always thought that, should they exist, werewolves would be humans that wore the shape of wolves.

            He knew better now.

            He greeted all of them with respect in turn, knew all of the family as he ran his fingers down backs, scratched behind ears as the betas practically snuggled him. He should have been afraid, as any one of them could have ripped out his throat, torn him limb from limb, gutted him with the clawed paws that clacked against the hardwood floor. They wouldn't have even had to particularly care or try.

            Instead, a sense of peace was all that crept over him, surrounded by the overly-warm, soft bodies of the Pack. They would never hurt him, these beautiful, deadly creatures. This he knew as surely as he could know anything, because despite that he was not a wolf, they had called him pack-mate. They called him brother.

            He was glad they had chosen him, had placed their trust in him by telling him their secret.

            A quiet "ruff" caused the group to part reluctantly, and the Alpha's mate approached, an ebon ball of fur clamped in her teeth. As she placed it into his lap, it infolded into a tiny, velvet, squirming pile of newborn puppy. It squeaked and turned its head to look up sideways at him and he smiled. His dark eyes met the mother's. "He's the new addition?" he asked reverently. She dipped her head in a nod. "Derek, right?" he asked, laying a gentle hand over the pup's head and smoothing it back over his ears. "He's beautiful."

            She leaned forward, licked the human's cheek, and he could practically hear her warm voice saying "Take care of them, Deaton." She would have said it the same way as the first time she had drawn him into the Pack's den, bared their world to him in a moment of need.

            "I'll take care of them, Mama," Deaton said affectionately, giving her a reassuring smile, cupping her silvery cheek in one hand for a brief second. "I will always take care of your children."

            The Alpha ghosted up to her side, looked Deaton over with scrutiny. While his mate trusted this boy, this _human_ , to care for the young of the werewolf pack, he was still uncertain. He had trouble placing trust in someone outside of the pack, outside of the species, someone foreign to their world. So far the young veterinarian had proved useful, watching the pups on full moon nights for the past six months so that the pack could roam unimpeded, allow their wolves free rein.

            It was... proving useful.

            Perhaps that was a good enough starting point when it came to humans.

            Deaton ducked his head submissively to the Alpha, turned his eyes to the floor like any of the betas would if the question of authority arose. He had learned a lot in the few months he had been exposed to them; to submit to their Alpha has been his first. His shoulder would forever bear the scar of that encounter, a reminder of the lesson.

            The Alpha, mollified a the gesture, bent down to lave a long, pink tongue over Derek's head. His face was assaulted by his daughter a second later, and despite that she had grown considerably larger than Derek, her father picked her up whole in his jaws and deposited her outside of Deaton's lap. He huffed at her and she yapped back, licked his nose before he lifted his head out of reach. His mate snorted at him, rose to her feet.

            The rest of the Pack was at attention in an instant, the last rays of sunshine that poured through the window bathing their pelts in halos of light. Deaton sat, transfixed, as he watched them rub shoulders, the rumble of the hunt bouncing between them as they waited for their alphas to make the first move. This would be the first hunt for the two adolescent wolves, and Deaton could see how excited they were, trying their best to stand still amidst the excitement.

            Then the Alpha was tossing back his head, and his howl ripped through the house, was joined by his mate's higher voice, and the rest of the pack, and the small, keening howls of all the pups save the one half asleep in Deaton's lap. All of the hair on his body stood on end at the noise, flesh prickling into goose-bumps, heart thundering in his chest as his blood raced.

            And they were gone, like shadows into the night.

            Deaton closed his eyes with a smile, stroked a hand down the soft fur of the pup in his lap. "Well, Derek," he said, and the puppy opened sleepy blue eyes to look up at him. The other four crowded around him as well, tails wagging their whole hind ends. "Looks like it's just us puppies now."

            Derek closed his eyes, gave a big puppy yawn, and turned his attention to gnawing on Deaton's thumb.


	172. Derek & Talia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Talia make cookies together.

            The sound of clanking ceramic bowls broke through his concentration, slowing the scratch of his crayon against the paper. He tilted his head, listened to his mother downstairs as she pulled containers from the pantry, utensils from drawers, the box of index cards from the depths of the cabinet over the fridge. If he closed his eyes, he could hear the shuffle of her fingers through the cards, the hiss as she drew one out from amongst the others. He lay down the crayon, shoved the papers away from him and wiggled down from the tall chair.

            He found his mother in the kitchen, waiting expectantly for him. She smiled with her hands splayed atop the island countertop. "Derek," she greeted.

            "What are you doing?" he asked from the doorway, not having permission to enter her kitchen while she was doing something.

            "I'm going to bake cookies for Laura's bake sale tomorrow," she told him, motioning with one hand to the flour and sugar and eggs.

            "Can I... can I help?" he asked, fidgeting as if desperately wanting to get across the line into the kitchen.

            She looked overly thoughtful, keeping an eye on him to see him worry, and then shrugged. "I suppose I could use someone to stir the bowl! Go grab one of the dining room chairs, puppy."

            Elated, Derek scurried from the room, attacking the nearest ancient wooden chair where it rested beside their long, mahogany dining table. The chairs were all excessively heavy, or would have been if he were human. As it was, he managed to half-scoot, half-drag one of the large chairs into the kitchen and turn it so that he could stand upon it and see over the countertop.

            Not having waited, his mother was already measuring the sugar to pour over the top of the mound of flour already in the bowl. He watched, fascinated, as the coarser grain cascaded over the finer, could hear the grains shifting together like music. He sniffed, loving the scent of the raw sugar his mother most often used for baking. Before she could reach for them, he grabbed up the eggs and held one out for her.

            "Don't crack it," he ordered imperiously, trying to sound like his father. "You have to use your claw!"

            Laughing, she held the egg in one hand and extended the index finger of her other. Fascinated, Derek watched as her werewolf claw curved out, much more delicate than his own would ever be. She set it against the surface of the egg and scrawled the letter "D" across it. "D for Derek," she told him, and plucked the carved letter from the surface to hand to him. He clasped it gently, face lit in a smile as he watched her dump the contents of the egg into the bowl.

            She swiftly cracked the rest of the eggs and then handed him a wooden spoon as long as his forearm. "Mix it now?" he asked, pale eyes glittering with expectation.

            "Yep!" she agreed. "Mix it 'til there are no more dry bits and no more lumps. And don't spill any!"

            He plunged the spoon into the mix and a puff of flour rose into his face, causing him to wrinkle his nose and sneeze. Realizing this might count as "spilling," he looked to her, but she was already measuring butter and extracts. Satisfied he was not in trouble, Derek began to stir slowly, making sure that none of the powder billowed up again, smashing down the lumps as he found them. His mother added ingredients as he stirred, until finally she was just sitting across from him, watching.

            When he deemed the task finished, he stopped, the soreness in his arm healing almost instantly when his motion ceased. He looked up happily and found his mother staring fondly at him, a small smile playing over her lips. He beamed, and relinquished the spoon to her for judgment. She gave it an experimental swirl in the firm batter, but Derek had done the job well.

            "Do you want to cut shapes?" she asked him, laughed when he perked. "Ok, fetch the rolling pin from that cabinet, and I'll grab the cookie cutters!"

            Derek slithered down the chair, searching with one tippy-toe for the ground instead of jumping. He grabbed the worn, wooden rolling pin, with its red handles and smooth coating of flour stains, and set it on the chair. Clambering back up, he picked up the rolling pin and placed it on the counter. His mother was laying out a variety of cutters in different shapes, some metal, some plastic. The lump of cookie dough sat idly between them. She flourished up two designs and presented them to him for choosing.

            "That one," he said, pointing to the one shaped like a daisy head. Then he looked at the other one, and the three others. "They're all _flowers_ ," he informed her with distaste.

            "Of course they are," his mother said, pressing the daisy into his palm and setting aside the tulip. "It's a spring bake sale."

            He frowned as he watched her rolling out the dough into a large, thin patty. "It's... _girly_." He had the good grace to look abashed when she raised an eyebrow at his disdain. He corrected quickly. “Other things are spring, too.”

            His mother laughed, a sound that widened his eyes with pleasure. He loved hearing her laugh, was glad she was so generous with her happiness. A lot of the kids at school were not so lucky.

            "Girls like flowers, you know _,_ " she said affectionately. "I think everyone likes getting flowers. And I think you know they will taste good no matter what shape they’re in."

            Derek wrinkled his nose, but then shrugged. "I guess.”

            They set about cutting shapes without further discussion, his mother's flowers much neater than his as she pulled them expertly from the rest of the dough and set them aside. Without comment she accepted his slightly stretched versions, molded them quickly into proper shape and set them amongst her own until there was only one small lump of dough, not quite big enough to make a good flower. This she took, rolled into a ball, mashed down and shaped into a heart.

            "This one can be for you," she told Derek gently, setting it down in front of him.   "It's a heart," Derek observed, making a small heart outline with his hands in the air. He looked up, and she reached over to scrub a bit of dough from his nose. "We can share it."

            "Deal," she told him. "Now scoot. Wash up and I'll come get you when they're done."

            For a moment, Derek stood upon the chair and surveyed their work. The two dozen flowers, in neat stacks of four, the flour all over the countertops, all over his skin. His mother smiling patiently, watching him. He nodded and then slithered down from the chair, dragging it back to where it belonged in the dining room. He fetched a paper towel, wet it and wiped the flour from the dark chair before his father could find it. Then he retreated back upstairs, to the desk and the papers and the crayons.

            He spent the rest of the night drawing flowers for his mother.


	173. Derek x Stiles (& Laura)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek meets Stiles when they are little kids.

            She turned around to face them, fixed each with a serious mom stare. "Ok, you two. What are the rules?"

            "No biting," Derek declared, almost a pledge.

            "No shifting," Laura said, tone echoing the lecture they'd heard a gazillion times.

            "No talking to humans!" Derek said quickly, smile growing.

            "And if we get mad, we're done!" they chimed together, then shot one another sly sideways glances.

            Their mother knew better, gave them both a raised eyebrow that said she hadn't fallen off the turnip truck yesterday. "And?" she prompted.

            Laura rolled her eyes and Derek blushed at being caught. "And no _pranks_ ," Laura amended with a sigh.

            Beside her, Derek struggled to control a grin, and their mother rolled her green eyes. "I mean it you two. If the humans find out what you are, they'll hurt you. Maybe kill you. I know this is fun for you, but remember it is also a lesson. You should be watching how the humans act around one another. I'm going to ask you questions when we get home."

            "We _know_ mo~m," Derek said, drawing out the name. "You tell us _every_ _time_."

            "I mean it every time young man," she chided, but she could see that they understood. "All right, collars on then."

            Perking up, Derek shoved a sharp blue collar toward his sister and she plucked it gracefully from his fingers. He leaned forward, baring his neck for her to clip it on him. The weight was familiar, if not welcome, and the silver tag jingled as he straightened.

            Laura offered him her blood red collar, and he took it almost solemnly. She was to be the alpha of their pack someday, and bowing her head to anyone, even her little brother, was something she did not often do. Here though, she leaned forward, held up her long, dark tresses to allow him to fasten the collar around her neck. The tag rested in the hollow at the base of her throat. Derek liked the flowing script on hers better than he liked the block lettering of his own name.

            "Check your blind spots," their mother said when they were both collared.

            They turned each to their own window, scanning the humans milling about the park. No one wandered the parking lot around them, no strays nearby from the playground. Most of the parents were focused on their children as they played. "It's clear," Laura reported.

            Their mother nodded, and the two took it as permission to duck down and begin to shift. They were the children of alpha wolves who had not reached puberty, and so their forms were not the powerful shifts of the adults. Laura's skin began to darken first, to split and rise into blackened fur. Her face lengthened, jaws jutting, teeth elongating and sharpening. Last to change were her dark eyes, becoming the burnt reddish-orange of her status as young alpha. When she was finished, she stood before him as a wolf pup, so dark brown as to appear black.

            Derek, on the other hand, _was_ as black as coal except for the white line on his chest and the bright blue of his eyes. He gazed happily at his sister, tongue lolling and long, bushy tail wagging. Their mother reached back to them, rubbed a thumb over the tags at their throats to activate the charm within them. The tags glowed for a moment, then returned to a sedate silvery color. She would be able to tell if they were close to shifting back and get them away from the humans.

            "Stay close to me, until you've been seen, and then you can play. Don't want to scare anyone," she told them as a final warning. She didn't like the risks that came with these sorts of tests, but she knew why her mate insisted on them. She would not be able to protect them forever- they would have to learn to survive amongst humans.

            Laura rolled her little pup eyes, pawing at the car door with impatience. Derek's tail wagged again as he focused on the door handle. Their mom sighed and got out, opened the door for them.

 

* * *

 

            As the myriad scents rolled over them, Derek took a deep breath and closed his eyes. There were a million scents, from the people inhabiting the park to the food they had eaten to the drinks they carried. From the small animals in the trees, on the ground, in the air, to the dozens of different plants that were nothing like the ones in the woods near his home. He could smell chemicals and mechanical things, the buildings at the edges of the park... everything, and it was all wondrous and rich to him.

            Laura nudged his shoulder with her nose, nodded toward where their mother was already moving away from them. He scrabbled down after her, his paws just a little too big to save him from being awkward. Beside him, Laura's eyes were alight with mischief and he could practically see the words _race you_ written in the lines of her pose. For a moment he thought about putting his head up and strutting purposefully away, but then she was running and he was galloping after her toward their mother.

            Derek relished in the feel of his wolf body. The strength of the muscles as he bounded up to their mother's side. The keen sense of smell alerting him to even the small smells, like the scents of _home_ radiating from new arrivals to the park.  It was glorious, so much better than being a human... aside from the lack of thumbs, anyway, and that would come when he was older, when he had more power.

            As the trio approached the playground, Derek and Laura each took a side, trotting obediently at their mother's heels. Derek's eyes were drawn to the children at play, climbing all over the colorful equipment. The chatter of their games was almost overwhelming, and Derek pressed a little closer to his mother. She smiled, nudged him away with the toe of her shoe.

            "Go on," she said softly enough that they were the only ones with keen enough hearing to catch it.

            Laura gave Derek a once over, and then disappeared into the throng of kids. He watches her weaving amongst them, her straight tail purposefully curled up over her back to make her look more like a dog and less like a wolf pup. She was all puppy smiles, tongue lolling, licking the cheeks of any child brave enough to get close to her. The parents on the sidelines didn't seem to mind the puppies; perhaps if they were bigger, or looked meaner, but they were soft and small and were keeping the kids occupied which meant they were not screaming.

            Much more hesitant, Derek hung back, looking up to watch the kids clambering up the ladders to get to the slide. He could hear the fabric of their clothes scuffing along the surface until they popped out the bottom, squealing and gigging to go back for more. There was a rope bridge above that only some of the kids were brave enough to cross, despite the ropes along the sides which prevented anyone from falling. His eyes traced the cubes with bowed out glass, the climbing pole, the platform with a steering wheel to nowhere attached to one wall.

            The sandbox where a lone child sat, covered by one of the windowed cubes, a small stick in his hand that he was using to draw patterns in the damp, dark sand. His knees were pulled to his chin and his attention was entirely focused on his work, ignoring the rest of the world.

            An oasis of calm in the storm.

            Derek resolutely curled his tail over his back like his sister had done, and began trotting through the crowd to reach the child. The boy couldn't have been over five and Derek couldn't get a scent of him amongst all the rest until he poked his head through the square bars of the structure. The boy didn't even look up, didn't seem to notice the wolf peering in at him. Miffed, Derek let out a small _ruff_ in the boy's direction.

            Big brown eyes turned toward him, and Derek found himself trapped underneath the intense stare. It was unnerving, and he looked down first, wriggling through the opening until he had joined the boy in the sandbox. As Derek padded over the child seemed unconcerned that he'd been joined by a wolf. Instead, he held out a hand for Derek to sniff.

            Derek obliged, snuffling his nose into the child's proffered palm with interest. he smelled of bacon and eggs and toast, like strawberry jam and butter. He smelled like he had come from Sunday brunch. The scent of _love_ clung to every part of him and Derek found himself wagging his tail.

            "Good puppy," the child declared, mashing a sandy hand on top of Derek's head between his ears. The hand smoothed back over his neck, followed the line of his collar without grasping on, until he could palm the tag. "Dee... eee... arrr... Deeeerrrr." Derek _ruffed_ again, and the boy's gaze briefly met his own before returning to the task. For a moment he puzzled over the word and then- "Derek." He looked up and Derek wagged his tail once. "That's not a dog's name."

            Derek wiggled and licked the boy's cheek in agreement.

            "Hey!" he exclaimed, pushing Derek off of him and grabbing his face with both small hands. "No licking!" he admonished, and it took a lot of control for Derek not to tear his snout from this human's controlling hands and bite him. The boy released him not a moment too soon, and Derek forgave him instantly when his fingers found a soft spot at the base of Derek's ear. "Good puppy."

            The sound of Laura's bark perked Derek's ear and he turned to look. She was at the edge of a group of children who had figured out if they threw a stick she would fetch it back to them. He and the boy watched several exchanges before Derek once more found his head being petted.

            "You should play too," said the boy. Derek planted his butt beside the kid, and looked up at him expectantly. The child pursed his lips and then shrugged. "Ok."

            And then he was wiggling through the bars and Derek was on his heels, following him up the steps toward the rope bridge that lead across to the slide. As they climbed the boy's smile grew, happiness radiating from him until it affected Derek as well, until he was nudging at the boy's legs and they were at the precipice of the slide.

            In the middle of trying to decide how to go down the slide, his front paws slipping around on the lip of the smooth plastic, the boy grabbed him around the middle, tucked him into his chest, and practically leaped into the tube. Derek yelped, a sound which dropped sharply at the end as they went spiraling toward the ground. The child's squeal of delight echoed around them until they were spit out at the bottom in a tumble of human, werewolf, dirt and wood shavings.

            For a moment Derek didn't know what to do with himself. The child was sitting beside him giggling, and he could hear someone at the top of the slide getting ready to make the same leap. That one was larger than his boy, and would inevitably land atop both of them if he didn't move. Making a quick decision, Derek scrambled to his feet, wheeled around to behind the boy, and grabbed the collar of his shirt. It was an easy task to haul him out of the way. A second later another child tumbled from the slide, landing exactly where his boy had been.

            "Stiles!" called a voice to their right. Derek spit out the boy's shirt and turned to see the woman who stood at the edge of the playground staring hard at Derek's boy.

            "Oops," said the boy - Stiles, Derek corrected - in a hushed, guilty tone. "That's my mom."

            She gave him a look that mirrored Stiles' earlier one; lips pursed, eyes unwavering as she made a decision. Derek leaned his shoulder against Stiles' arm. He knew that look. The fun was over. Sure enough, she motioned with a single point that Stiles was to get over here right now young man. The scent of guilt, the blood of the boy blushing, rose around them.

            Stiles clambered to his feet, brushed off his knees and his butt, and patted Derek on the head. "Come on, puppy," he said softly. Derek's tail wagged of its own accord.

            The two wove their way through the throng of kids and Derek could smell Laura as she broke away from the group she'd been entertaining. Of course she would keep an eye on him, whatever she was doing; he was Pack, and she would lead him someday. He ducked his head guiltily, having forgotten momentarily about her, about his test.

            As they reached her, the woman knelt, held out her hand to Derek. He could see the softness in her eyes, knew that she was only protecting her cub. He accepted the truce with grace, bounding the last step between them until he could put his nose into her palm as he had done to Stiles. It was only with great control that he did not recoil at the spark of pain the touch sent across his nose. He looked up, met her doe-brown eyes. She was beautiful, but she was hurt somehow.

            "You made a friend," she observed to Stiles, not taking her eyes from Derek.

            "Can we take him home?" Stiles asked innocently. "Pleeeeease?"

            She smiled and finally her attention shifted to her son. "Sorry, love. He has a collar already see? Someone already loves him."

            "But he wants to come home with us, I think," Stiles said sagely.

            Ruffling his hair with one slender hand, she chuckled. "Oh you think that, do you?" she asked, and then turned him by the head to see Laura as she approached. "I think you might have to convince his girlfriend!"

            Laura paused, staring at the boy's mother, her nose raised in the air slightly. Curious, Derek lifted his own nose, took a deep breath to catch the woman's scent. Brunch and love, the same as the boy, with a warm perfume and... and something else. Something Derek didn't recognize. Something he didn't like. His eyes dropped back to Laura as she padded forward, stopping beside him and nuzzling his shoulder.

            Stiles' shoulders dropped in disappointment. "Oh," he said, and he sounded so sad that Derek had to control the urge to press into him for reassurance. He couldn't go home with the child.

            "Come on, buddy," his mom said, and she made it sound like an apology somehow. "Say goodbye, it's time to get home."

            Taking in a deep breath, Stiles sighed heavily and then practically collapsed around Derek as only a small dramatic child can. Derek stiffened slightly as the child's arms wrapped around his neck in a hug. It wasn't a threat, though, and Derek managed to relax enough to press his cheek into the side of Stiles' throat. When the boy withdrew, he patted Derek on the head one more time. "Goodbye, puppy. Be _good_ ," he advised.

            Derek's tail wagged one last time as Stiles' mother took her son's hand in hers.

            That _scent_...

            He looked to Laura, silently asking her what it was, what could possibly smell that wrong about what seemed like such a nice human. His sister's ruddy eyes were sad, her ears drawn back just slightly. She mimed laying down weakly, laying her head upon the ground as if... as if...

            As if dying.

            Derek's eyes snapped back to the child and his mother as they walked away from the wolves. Stiles was bouncing around in his mother's grasp, chattering about the puppy he met and how he was going to get one of his very own, about how he was going to tell 'Scott' all about his puppy. How his dad was going to love a puppy just like Derek. His mother just murmured soft agreements and lead him toward the car, toward home, and all Derek could smell was that scent, that scent that said she was _dying_.

            He knew that humans got sick. He knew that sometimes they got colds and sometimes they smelled funny, and that it hurt them. He knew their bodies didn't heal them like his did. He had smelled sickness before, knew half the kids at the playground had snotty noses or a mild cough. He had smelled sickness on his mother when she visited a human friend of hers. But this... this was different. Worse. Final.

            He whined, low in his throat, as he watched Stiles walk away, holding the hand of his mother, her love for him so strong that he had reeked of it in the sandbox... and Derek's chest hurt at how unfair humans had it. How deeply they loved and how easily they lost.

            _He's going to have it so rough,_ Derek thought sadly, ears perked to listen to the child's voice after he had disappeared from sight. He just couldn't imagine losing his own mother... not so young, at least. He wished there was something he could do.

 

* * *

 

            Beside him, Laura contained a sigh, watching her brother as he stared intently after the humans. She knew that look. She glanced out toward the parking lot, where the duo had disappeared, and wondered if the child had any more idea what had happened than Derek.

            _Probably not_ she thought, and nudged his shoulder hard to get his attention. It was time for them to be going as well. They could sort out his bonding-with-humans issues later, she decided. Their mother didn't need to know.

            Besides... what were the odds they would see that boy again anyway?


	174. Allison x Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ladyhawke AU done for Mating Games

            While the light still shone, Allison kept her feathers to the breeze, her sharp eyes cast down to watch him as he navigated the rocky terrain. Beside him labored the traveler that had attached himself to them, though she was too far up to hear if they spoke. She didn't want to hear them; it only reminded her of everything she couldn't have as long as the curse still bound them.

            It hadn't always been this way. She'd been a woman once, a flesh-and-blood, pale-skinned human, and she had loved him. She loved him still.

            She veered away from them, tasking herself with watching the path ahead instead. If she thought for too long about how things used to be, she would get caught up in the memories. She would get caught up in the feel of his hands sliding over her skin, cupping her breasts, touching her face like she was made of glass he dare not break. She would get caught in the taste of his kisses, and the soft murmur of his voice beside her ear as he moved within her.

            Folding her wings, she let herself free-fall, her belly swooping as the ground raced toward her. All thought fled from her mind for just a moment, until she opened her wings and broke the descent.

            No, she couldn't lose herself in imagining what used to be. Not now. Not until Peter's blood was hot on her hands and his curse upon them only a fading memory.

 

* * *

 

            Scott knew that darkness was rolling in, but he couldn't bear to take his eyes from her feathered form to watch the dusk's arrival. He knew what it heralded; he could feel the wolf clawing at his insides, waiting for its chance to take over. When the light began to fade from the world, she would come down from the sky and take to the ground with them once more.

            For just a moment, just the flicker of time between light and dark, they would both be human. For just a moment, he could touch his fingers to her soft cheek, whisper her name like a prayer. For the span of <i>I love you</i> he could press his lips to hers, and then it would be over. Just a moment, and then he would be the animal, and she, the human.

            Where once he had so treasured it, he had come to hate the night. It no longer held time alone with her, curled around her with nothing between them. It was no longer the feel of her palms down his back, or the catch of her breath, or the clutch of her fingers on his arms as she fell apart around him.

            Now he slept beside her as a dark wolf, her fingers curled in his pelt and her tears wet on his fur. She missed him just as much as he missed her. She was right there, he was right beside her, and yet a thousand miles may as well separate them.

            He held his arm aloft as the last rays of sunlight begin to hide behind the horizon, and waits for her arrival. Above him, he saw her fold her wings to come back to him.

            He will kill Peter, he thinks, and he will not feel regret as long as she is with him again.


	175. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning, Not safe for work
> 
> Canon Divergence scene done for Mating Games.

            It wasn't so much that Stiles _couldn't_ sleep, so much as that he felt like he was going to fall through the floor and into further insanity if he closed his eyes too long. It had felt that way for a while, since his best friend had been bitten by an alpha werewolf and they found themselves tossed into a whirlwind of supernatural events. Now, there was a werewolf sleeping on his bed while Stiles spun slow, squeaky circles in his desk chair.

            Derek, of course, wasn't bad decoration, especially not when he refused to wear any of Stiles' too-small shirts and fell asleep sprawled over most of Stiles' bed. Danny would have appreciated the view.

            Stiles had given up telling himself that he didn't also appreciate it. There was just so much of it to appreciate; those sculpted abs, the scruff of black clinging to his jawline, the curve of his hipbone peeking out from his jeans. His hair was tousled from shifting around, and Stiles found himself missing the pale blue of his eyes, even if all they ever did was glare at him.

            Sighing, he closed his eyes and scrubbed the heel of his palm over his cock. There was no way he was jacking off with Derek in the room, even if it would be to thoughts of those arms pressing him up against the wall, holding him up, those hips bucking up as Derek fucks into him.

            A small noise escaped him, and he covered his mouth, eyes flying open to check if Derek had heard. No, Stiles decided. Derek was still asleep, one hand splayed over his belly, the other tucked under the pillow. Stiles' eyes wandered up over his skin, tracing his fingers, following the curve of his body up to his elbow.

            Stiles contained a groan, running a palm over his face as he turned away and spinning his chair in another slow circle, eyes closed.

            _Calm down_ , he told himself, repeating it slowly, carefully.

            "You may as well just do it," came Derek's exhausted voice, muffled slightly by his arm.

            Stiles startled out of his chair, attempting to both get up and get out at the same time and accomplishing neither. The crash of his chair would have woken his father, if his father had been home.

            "I wasn't doing anything!" Stiles objected from the floor. He groped one hand out, and shoved the chair away from himself. Rolling over, he clambered to his feet, only to find Derek giving him a sour glare. Stiles told himself it wasn't hot, but he could tell he was lying to himself.

            "Your entire room smells like arousal, your heartbeat shoots up every couple of minutes, and you have spent most of the last two hours staring at me," Derek told him, exasperation so strong Stiles could practically feel it man-handling him. It wasn't hot. It wasn't.

            Stiles groaned and covered his face. "I'm sorry," he said miserably. "I can't sleep."

            For a few moments, Derek just regarded him in silence, long enough for Stiles to peek out from between his fingers to see if he was about to be murdered. Derek was sitting, though Stiles hadn't heard him move, and he nodded for Stiles to come over. "Come here," he said, when Stiles remained frozen to the spot.

            Hesitantly, Stiles moved over, skirting around his chair, and moving as close as he dared, until Derek reached out and wrapped warm fingers around his wrist, pulling him over. "What are you doing?" Stiles asked, voice gone hoarse. He knew what Derek was doing, he just didn't believe it.

            "Helping," Derek said simply, tugging Stiles down into his lap, Stiles' back pressed up against his chest.

            Stiles let out a shaky breath. "Okay," he replied. "You're not going to, like, rip my throat out, are you?"

            Derek's chuckle was a pleasant rumble. "I think I can find a better use for my teeth tonight," he murmured before nipping gently at the soft skin at the nape of Stiles' neck. His hand found the hard line of Stiles' cock and stroked over it. Stiles gasped, back arching and his hands flying to cover Derek's.

            "Oh," he breathed out. As Derek did it again, Stiles' hands following the motion this time, Stiles thought he still wasn't going to get much sleep tonight, but he didn't think it was so bad anymore.


	176. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Not safe for work, Zombies
> 
> Non-penetrative Sex, done for Mating Games.

            "Close the door, close-" Stiles said roughly, hands not releasing Derek's jacket lapels. A satisfied noise escaped him as Derek did his best to close the door with his foot, unwilling to let Stiles get far enough away to break the kiss.

            "Stiles, we can't-" he began, in an entirely unconvincing display of resistance, his fingers wrapped over the back of Stiles' neck.

            "It's clear," Stiles assured him between kisses. "No zombies, god, get this off, get- just-"

            Derek's fingers tightened against Stiles' skin as the human found the buckle of his belt, fumbling the latch undone with adrenaline-shaky hands. Stiles didn't even bother pulling it from the loops, just dove right back in for the button of Derek's jeans, the grate of the zipper coming undone the only warning Derek received before Stiles' warm palm was sliding under the clothing.

            It had been a long time since either of them had found a place so devoid of the undead that they could both let their guards down at the same time. Even now, with Stiles practically pressing him up against the door of the abandoned classroom, lips hot on his, Derek had his ears tuned for the scrape of a dragged foot or the rattle of a useless drawn breath. It was getting harder to hear anything beyond the pattern of Stiles' heart.

            His head fell back against door and he bucked his hips into Stiles' touch, silently begging for more- more contact, more friction, more pressure, more more more. Sometimes he wished Stiles would take the bite, if only so that he could smell the raw desire roiling off of Derek, urging him not to take his time.

            A cold nose ghosted over the curve of his throat, chased by a warm tongue, and Derek shivered. "Okay," Stiles murmured, breath licking across the cool stripe left behind. "I got you."

            Shifting, Stiles backed off just enough to get Derek's briefs down, freeing his cock. A guttural sound escaped Derek as Stiles wrapped a hand loosely around him and began to stroke, his forehead pressed to Derek's collarbone so that he could watch his own movements.

            He didn't get away with it for long before Derek couldn't stand not having more of Stiles exposed. It was safe here, safer than they'd been in months- he couldn't hear anything at all inside the building aside from their own harsh breathing. They would have time to put clothing back on, if he just-

            Stiles halted with a laugh as Derek huffed a frustrated noise at how his shaky hands were rendering him unable to unbutton Stiles' shirt. He batted Derek's fingers away and made short work of them, opening the front but leaving it over his shoulders. _Good enough_ , Derek thought, slipping his hands under the fabric and splaying his fingers over Stiles' bare ribs.

            "Pants," he breathed, nuzzling into the crook of Stiles' neck and breathing him in. Maybe Stiles couldn't smell the desire thick in the air between them, but Derek could.

            Stiles was quick to obey, both of them letting out groans of relief when he pressed forward, wrapping his hand around both of them. For just a second, Stiles hesitated. "Still clear?" he asked, voice rough.

            Derek pushed into his hand, sliding his cock against Stiles', and said, "Yeah, yes. Whole building."

            "Good." With that, Stiles began to move again, stroking over them both, lips on Derek's neck, sucking in marks that healed almost instantly.

            Derek tried to keep an ear out for the undead, but after a few moments, he was lost in the heady sound of Stiles' heartbeat, the rhythm of his hand, the tiny, pleased noises he made as they moved together, chasing release.

            Stiles' free hand tightened on Derek's arm, and Derek leaned his weight back against the wall. The way Derek's name slipped from Stiles' lips as he came, caught on a gasp, was all Derek needed to push him right over the edge as well.

            For a while, they stood there in silence, Stiles leaning some of his weight on Derek. It was only when Derek heard the scrape of a shoe at the entrance of the school that he nudged Stiles up, kissing his jaw, his cheek, seeking out his lips for one more stolen moment of happiness.

            "We gotta go," he said quietly. He didn't have to warn him what was coming; Stiles would know what the tone meant. The zombies were never far anymore.


	177. Derek x Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was written off a Tumblr discussion that has since been lost to time (if anyone else can find the post where this story originated, please let me know). Derek wakes up from a coma to find his world is a little... different.

            The light was too bright when Derek first opened his eyes, so he squinted them shut and groaned. He wasn't at the loft, that much was for sure. Everything around him was white, or shades of white, or that horrible pale blue-green that suffused every hospital he'd ever been to. There was a dully beeping noise off to his left, almost silent, and everything else was muffled. Something was horribly wrong; he felt like someone had wrapped all of his senses in cotton.

            Something stirred in the chair to his right, and the soft "Derek?" that spilled out in a familiar voice gave him the strength to chance cracking open his eyes again.

            It felt like someone had stripped his throat raw when he tried to speak, but he forced words past his lips anyway. "Stiles? What- where are we?"

            The last thing he remembered was getting into the car with Cora. She was talking about... he scraped at his memory, trying to dredge up what she had been telling him, but all he came up with was a blackness that oozed into everything else so that he felt dizzy with it.

            "You were in a car wreck," Stiles told him gently, getting to his feet and moving around the end of the bed to get to Derek's other side, closer to the door. He pressed a button on the bed before leaning over and smoothing Derek's hair off his forehead. "A pretty bad one, Derek."

            "I was... Cora," he realized, trying to sit up. Stiles stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder, and he shouldn't have been able to press Derek back onto the bed, but he did. He felt so weak. "Is Cora okay?"

            "She's fine," Stiles assured him. "We didn't... no one was sure you would be, though."

            "I'll heal," Derek told him, allowing a little bit of disdain into his tone. "I can still heal even as a beta, you know."

            "A what?" Stiles asked, tipping his head, concern flooding his features.

            Derek gave him a funny look, because he'd _told_ Stiles that. In staring at Stiles, he realized- "Why are you dressed like that?"

            Looking down, Stiles took in his Deputy uniform, slightly wrinkled as if he had slept in that hospital chair overnight. He shifted uncomfortably, letting out an apprehensive breath. "They've been letting me stay after work," Stiles admitted. "My dad's been dropping by our place to take care of Duke."

            "What?" Derek exclaimed, panic coursing through him as he tried to sit up again. A nurse appeared in the doorway, and Derek's eyes widened. He pressed on the wild part of himself, willing forth the wolf within, because Erica was standing there, alive. "Who are you?" he demanded, even as he realized that his features hadn't changed, his hands were still soft and human. "What-"

            Stiles laid a hand on his shoulder, pressing him back, and trading a worried glance with Erica. "Sir, please calm down," she told him smartly, moving over to the side of the bed. Stiles moved out of her way, back to the other side of the bed. He scrubbed his hand over his face the same was the Sheriff did when things were getting to be just a bit too much. "I need you to tell me what you remember," she intoned, pulling a penlight from her pocket and reaching out touch him.

            He grabbed her forearm. "You're dead," he told her, watching her eyes widen a little as she gave him a very calculated _excuse you?_ look. "I carried your dead body into the woods, and I buried you next to my sister. Who are you?"

            "Derek," Stiles chided from beside him, reaching over to pry his fingers off of Erica. "You can't just assault the nice and incredibly lenient nurses. Your sisters are fine."

            "Sisters?" Derek's attention snapped to Stiles now. "Stiles, _what is going on_."

            Stiles sighed, and Erica gave him a helpless little shrug. "They said this might happen. He did take a heavy hit to the head when the airbag went off."

            "Okay," Stiles agreed, looking for all the world like he was trying desperately to take this all in stride. "Derek, can you tell us what you remember? Before the crash?"

            "I remember getting into the car with Cora, and she was talking to me... and then nothing," Derek told them, bewilderment creeping in around the edges.

            "And before that?"

            "We..." Derek gripped onto the memories, but there was something off about them. It felt like someone had been toying with them, leaving behind the faint blue glow of alpha-stolen memories. "I fought Deucalion. Scott was there, helping him. They wanted to kill Jennifer."

            "Our landlady?" Stiles asked, confused.

            Derek gave him a look like he'd completely lost his mind. "No, the Darach."

            "So... okay." Stiles took a deep breath and shook his head a little. "I'm going to reserve questions about why you were fighting our dog and our vet for later. Go on."

            It was hazy now, and Derek could feel his heart clawing up his throat. "I don't understand..."

            "Just keep going," Stiles pleaded gently. "What else do you remember?"

            Derek's eyes closed and he touched upon the weird, glistening memories. "Uh... we... we'd been hunting for the Darach because she'd been murdering people. She tried to murder you. She almost murdered Erica and Boyd and Scott."

            "And before that?" Stiles asked, exchanging a worried look with Erica.

            "Deucalion took Erica and Boyd prisoner. Isaac and I spent all summer looking for them, but we didn't find them until it was too late." He looked to Erica then, throat tight. "We were too late to save you. I'm so sorry."

            "I'm okay," she assured him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Boyd's okay too, you know. We've been watching over you for the past three weeks. He's going to be sad I won the bet on who'd be on duty when you woke up."

            "Boyd's... alive?" Derek asked, voice breaking over the words. "I don't understand... please."

            "Is he okay?" Stiles asked Erica.

            She gave him a one shouldered shrug. "He's been okay, Stiles. Except for being out. I'll let Dr. Deaton know that he's awake."

            "Thank you," Stiles said, watching as she slipped out of the room and left them alone. Then he promptly crawled into the bed beside Derek, who was far too surprised to stop him. "Scoot, big guy."

            Derek did, making room for Stiles, who all but curled into him, pressing their foreheads together. Panic rose in Derek's chest and everything within him screamed _not Stiles_.

            "I think you had a bad dream," Stiles said softly, thumb brushing over Derek's cheek. "A really bad dream, it sounds like."

            For a moment, Derek couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but listen to every protest screaming around in his head. It wasn't a dream that Erica was dead, or Boyd. It wasn't a dream that he only had one sister left. It wasn't a dream that Jennifer had attacked them, or Deucalion. It wasn't. It couldn't be.

            He wasn't that lucky.

            "Stiles," Derek croaked, unable to draw a proper breath through the tightness in his chest. "It wasn't a dream."

            "It was," Stiles reassures him, touching their noses. After all the times Derek had wished for something so simple, so _right_ with Stiles, the motion was so intimate and easy that it hurt. "Erica and Boyd are fine. They're your nurses- well, and Isaac too. Deucalion is our wolfhound. You call him Duke, and it's disgusting how cute you two are together. He never fights with Scott, the vet you were infatuated with before I came back to town. Any of this ringing a bell?"

            Derek shook his head a little. "It's playing Twilight Zone music," he said dryly.

            Stiles chuckled and shoved at his shoulder. "Nerd," he accused, though affection colored the name. "Anything else you aren't sure about?"

            "You said my sisters were fine?" Derek asks softly, fear coiling up around him, cold and heavy.

            "Yep," Stiles confirmed. "You swerved the car to protect Cora, and she walked away from the accident. Laura wasn't with you, but I promise she calls every morning before work to check on you."

            "She doesn't visit?" Derek asked, not sure what was harder to wrap his head around; that Laura was alive or that Laura was avoiding him.

            But Stiles was laughing, breathy and real. "Considering she lives in New York? No, Derek. She flew over the first day, to make sure your parents were okay. You know, cook some meals or whatever people do when their kid's in the hospital. They visit," Stiles pointed out cheerfully. "Someone, every day."

            "My parents..." Derek breathed, pulling back to look at Stiles. "They're alive? Who else?"

            Stiles gave him an odd look. "Like everyone?"  Stiles rolled his eyes when Derek gave him a look. "I don't know your entire family tree, Derek. Like, everyone." Stiles pointed. "Do you remember the family reunion?" He sounded afraid to hope.

            "There was still a reunion?" Derek asked. "I... there was a reunion. Almost everyone was there."

            "Well," Stiles continued. "Then all of them are fine. They called in to have us find you, after you left to pick up Cora and didn't come back." His voice dropped, a little tremble creeping in. "I- I was the one that found you, t-boned on the side of the road. We got Cora awake, and she said there was a deer, and the other car swerved first. The ice got you both."

            "The other car?" Derek asked immediately. "Were they okay?"

            "Yeah," Stiles assured him, smoothing his hand over the side of Derek's neck. Derek sank into the comfort, eyes fluttering closed. He hated that it was _this_ world that felt like the dream. He was glad the sensation was fading with every touch Stiles gave, strange old memories surfacing groggily. "It was a family. They came to visit, you know. Kali and her husband Ennis. Their little twins brought you flowers."

            "I don't remember," Derek admitted. It felt good though. They obviously were not alphas here. They were okay.

            Stiles chuckled. "You were out the whole time. They all talked to you, though. Wished you well. Which, I guess, was better than what your crazy uncle did."

            "Peter?" Derek questioned, opening his eyes. "He's... still crazy then."

            "Super crazy," Stiles confirmed with a little nod. "He didn't come in from San Fran for the reunion, but when your mom called him to tell him what happened, he volunteered to come hunt down the deer for revenge."

            For a moment Derek had to sit and determine if Stiles was telling the truth, or if reality was sliding sideways and he was about to be plunged back into the horrifying world he was being told was just a dream. But Stiles was just waiting patiently for him to ask any more questions. So he took a deep breath, and accepted the knowledge.

            "And uh... we still live in... Beacon Hills?" Derek asked tentatively.

            At that, Stiles outright laughed, enough that he had to sit up or choke on his own tongue, and then he was kissing Derek, hands on either side of his face, noses smushed together. It wasn't graceful or gentle or rough, but it was _happy_ and it was _loving_ and Derek had _absolutely no idea_ what to make of it.

            When Stiles pulled back, Derek just stared at him, taking in the huge smile and the warmth in his eyes. "Oh my god I love you. No, Derek, we are not living in our high school. We live in L.A." He nudged Derek's nose with his own. "Together," he added as if he already could tell Derek didn't know. "And you're usually a lot better at kissing. Amongst other things."

            Derek swallowed. "I think... you're going to have to remind me," he said quietly, even though the familiarity of Stiles' touch was sinking into him, even if fuzzy memories of his lips, of his skin, of his smile, were all slinking around just out of reach in the wake of the kiss.

            "I will," Stiles promised, nuzzling back down into Derek's space. "Every day, if I have to. I promised you once before that I'd stay, in sickness and in health, and I meant it, Derek."

            Startled, Derek brought his hands up and stared at them. Stiles chuckled and held up his own left hand between them. A thin gold band circled his ring finger. "What...?"

            "They took yours off when they were running tests," Stiles explained. "It's safe though. You'll get it back, promise, or we'll really raise some hell. I worked too hard to get you to say yes to me."

            For a moment, it was all Derek could do to just breathe, just grasp onto Stiles' hand and _breathe_. Then his eyes were sliding closed and he pressed his forehead to Stiles so that no one could see the shine prickling at his eyes. "Stiles?" he whispered, knowing his voice sounded tight. He didn't care.

            Stiles hummed his response, waiting.

            "I loved you," Derek confessed. "Even... there. In the- the dream. Everything was so different but I- but I still loved you."

            "I know," Stiles assured him, smiling.

            "You know?" Derek questioned. "How could you-"

            "Because," Stiles told him, interrupting. "Because I know there's no world out there where you don't love me. And whoever I was there, I guarantee you... I loved you too."

            Derek swallowed whatever response he might have made to that, and relaxed into Stiles. The nightmare was finally, finally over.


	178. Pack Feels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack is safe and happy at last.

 

 

            Consciousness was a slow thing for Stiles, a sensation that crept over him in the best of ways, caressing across his dreams, cajoling him into opening his eyes. The dawn light was soft from the west side of the house, enough that it had not managed to melt the thin layer of January frost crystals webbing across the window. He turned his head, warm brown eyes tracing over the patterns; it was rare to see frost where he lived. Considering how pretty it was, he allowed himself a moment's wish that he could see it more often.

            Then he realized his nose was cold, and that the window was cracked open the barest amount, and he shook his head.

            The sound of clanking dishes caught his attention a moment later, and he closed his eyes to listen. The table was being set for a large group of people, the group that would be arriving soon to celebrate his 20th birthday as well as the advent of the new year. There would be steak and eggs and bacon, biscuits and fresh syrup, and his father would make waffles for everyone. He could hear the faint click of the stove being lit, the clank of pans being arranged, the sizzle of bacon as it hit a frying pan.

            "Mmm," he groaned, stretching out luxuriously.

            He tried not to think of the people that would soon be arriving. Scott and his mother, Allison and her father. Lydia would come, but she would come to see Jackson. She always came to see Jackson, who would be lounging on a couch in the family room, in control of the large TV. Even Dr. Deaton would show, with Peter in tow, and it would be awkward and amusing at the same time.

            A small smile crept over his lips at the thought of Peter giving _the look_ to the veterinarian. Over three years ago, when the business with the kanima had been sorted, and Gerard lay in the ground, Allison had shaken off the drugs her grandfather had been slipping her. Detox was an awful month of screaming, of fighting, of crying and accusations. Scott had held her when she was done, stroked her hair and told her everything would be ok.

            It wasn't "ok" but it was getting better. She had been angry, hurt, betrayed. Her father had asked for Scott's help, having no one left to turn to, and the two of them had brought Allison around. Scott and Chris had formed... not a friendship, but perhaps an alliance. They agreed upon the need to protect Allison, at whatever the cost, until she could again protect herself.

            When she had finally come back down, she was still angry, but she was who she had been, the girl they remembered before Gerard. Sane, but furious at Derek for not controlling himself. Furious with her mother for taking the easy way out. Furious at her grandfather for drugging her to control her. Furious with Peter for killing Kate and bringing her grandfather down upon them all.

            Fortunately, it was Peter that had gotten the short end of that stick. Allison had set out for revenge upon him, a revenge which ended not in his death, but in his binding. She had found a way to bind him to a master, as the kanima had been bound, and chose the only person she knew who might be able to treat his crazy- Dr. Deaton. Now Peter assisted at the vet office as Scott had done, and actually, Stiles reckoned it was doing him some good.

            Still, the elder werewolf had his moments and Stiles was sure there would be a few today when he arrived. Moments where he would get that look in his eyes, and they could practically see the bloodlust or the confusion about his decision to sit here peacefully rather than fight. It was those moments when Dr. Deaton would nudge him, or softly call his name, and smile encouragingly. And Peter would take the look into consideration, give Dr. Deaton _that look_ in return, the one that said he knew he was tottering on the edge of crazy but he wasn't sure exactly _why_. Then it would vanish, and he would smile and come back to them.

            Stiles was happy to be able to say those moments were getting fewer and farther between. They were regrettably more frequent when all of them got together, though. Like today.

            Boyd's deep voice drew his attention back to the moment, and he listened to the sound of Erica's voice in response. He couldn't hear what either of them were saying, but he knew the tone; they were bickering again. In a good way, the sort of way that said they cared, but the other was still wrong. Stiles enjoyed their arguments. It meant they were not picking on him for still being human after over four years around them.

            The front door cracked open with a wet peeling noise, and the sound of Scott's voice filtered past Boyd's, joined by Isaac's soft greeting. Erica made delighted noises and Stiles assumed she was attaching herself to Scott as always. She seemed to take it the hardest, that Scott didn't want to live at the manor with them. Choosing to live with Allison after high school had set him apart from the others, but they tried not to let it show that it bothered them. Their acceptance of Scott's distance was not extended to Jackson, whom they still bullied into sleeping over more often than not- a fact Stiles didn't entirely appreciate even if he understood it.

            A part of him knew that Jackson was ok now. That the kanima was in his past, that he had worked through his issues with his parents. Coping had left him able to shift into a werewolf like the others, but he was never quite... trustworthy, in Stiles' opinion. He was the outlier, the one that Stiles knew would leave eventually, maybe to start his own pack, maybe just to be alone. Either way, whatever he chose to do, he would eventually hurt the pack, and Stiles didn't want to have to put up with that.

            He did, however, and he would, because the others wanted him. They had all fought for Jackson. Had thrown themselves forward at _saving_ him rather than killing him when he had not been himself. They had worked for that member of their pack, and if they wanted to keep him, Stiles would not stand in their way. He had resigned himself to being there for them when Jackson left.

            The doorbell rang, and Stiles found himself regretting the most recent addition. It was loud and kind of obnoxious, and it wasn't like the wolves couldn't hear someone knocking on the door even if they were in the very depths of the catacomb-esque basement. Not that he wasn't glad for the rest of the Hale house renovations, he just didn't think the doorbell was necessary.

            Ah, the renovation, he thought as he snuggled back down into the soft blankets piled up around him. Two years ago he had convinced Derek that the pack didn't have to hide in abandoned train stations or warehouses or take cover in the dank catacombs of the Hale house. Derek _did_ have money, more than enough to fix up the house until it was liveable. Derek had been reluctant (an understatement, Stiles thought- he had dug both heels in and gone into it kicking and howling) at first, but once the idea of having a real home had latched on, it burrowed in deep. Now the 11 original bedrooms had been finished, both front rooms, the kitchen, all four bathrooms, and parts of the catacombs had been transformed into a pantry and wine cellar.

            He tried not to think of what the locked room he was not allowed to enter contained.

            The sound of general commotion increased from the downstairs and the smell of bacon wafted under the bedroom door. He smiled, recognizing Dr. Deaton's voice. That meant that Allison would be here shortly, and then his own father would arrive, and they would be required to show their faces and participate. Heaving a sigh, Stiles rolled over onto his side, splayed a hand onto the bare back of the figure sprawled out beside him.

            "Der~ek..." he sing-songed softly, breath warm against the alpha's ear. "Wake up, puppy."  
            Derek growled, but it was more long-suffering than mean. "I'm not a puppy," he grumbled into the pillow, mushing his face in a little deeper to avoid the tendrils of dawn sneaking in through the fading frost on the window.  
            "Hey, come on," Stiles said, encouraging him with the flat of his palm smoothed down the wolf's bare back. "It's time to get up."  
            "Oh, I'm up," Derek mumbled, turning his head just enough to peek at Stiles from the corner of his eye.  
            Stiles laughed, a sound which smothered Derek with the desire to smile in return. " _Not_ today," Stiles admonished. Derek made a small, needy noise at the back of his throat that very nearly dissolved Stiles' resolve. "Not fair," he whispered, then louder-            "Your pack is downstairs waiting."  
            "My _pack_ can wait a few more minutes," Derek growled.  
            "No we can't!" chimed Erica's voice from downstairs, loud enough for Stiles' benefit as well.  
            Stiles blushed, but raised both eyebrows as his point was made. "See?" He stroked one hand over Derek's sleep-mussed hair. "Come on. My dad will be here soon and he'll come get us if we aren't down there."

            Derek groaned, but he rolled onto his side as if to get out of bed. Almost as an afterthought, the motion turned into a full body grab, and he pulled Stiles to him, the boy's back to his chest, and buried his nose in the crook of Stiles' neck.

            "We could have had a private party," he murmured into Stiles' skin.

            Stiles ran his fingers down Derek's forearm, smiled. "We will. But for now, we have guests, and we'd better get down there to entertain them before they start breaking things." His stare became unfixed in front of him as he imagined all the people who would soon be attempting to cohabitate his dining room. "All the things."

            One eyebrow rose, and then Derek grazed his teeth softly across the skin of Stiles' shoulder. Stiles shivered, and Derek released him, rolled out of bed behind him. Smiling at a chance to relish in the sight of Derek undressed, unguarded, Stiles flopped over and raked his gaze over the other boy.

            "See something you like, Stilinski?" Derek asked, giving his hips a little shake.

            It was Stiles' turn to raise an eyebrow, a smirk on his lips. "My birthday present for later," he said innocently. Derek just laughed, a sound Stiles still found completely intoxicating; exceptionally the times he was the cause of it.

            There was a knock at the door, and Derek finished pulling on jeans before he opened it to a gently smiling Isaac. "Breakfast is nearly ready and your dad just got here," he said, leaning so that he could address Stiles. "Erica and Boyd intercepted him. Erica says you're welcome."

            "Of course she does," Stiles said, rolling his eyes. "Thank you, Isaac."

            Isaac nodded, gave his scowling alpha a quick once over and a raised eyebrow, and then disappeared without another word. Stiles threw a pillow at Derek's butt, and then shimmied out of bed before Derek could return fire. The pillow hit the bed beside his thigh as he pulled on his own jeans. A moment later Derek was before him, had him by the hips, by the jaw, by the lips as he kissed him for attention. Stiles smiled.

            "It's going to be a good birthday, ok?" Derek assured him, forehead resting gently against his. "We're past all the bad stuff."

            "I know," Stiles said, but he didn't really know. He still needed to be reminded that he wasn't drowning anymore, that their entire group had managed to get its head above water, to float, to swim. They were ok now, all of them, but Stiles could still see the water, still experienced moments of doubt. The entire group only gathered for his and Scott's birthdays, and it was always tense, always a stark reminder of the blood and fear and pain that lay in their past.

            But every year the past grew more distant. Every birthday the smiles were less hesitant. The laughs more genuine. Every year they found new reasons to let go, to move on, to find happiness despite everything that had happened to them.

            Derek read all of it in his eyes, kissed him once more quickly and threaded his fingers into Stiles'. "Come on," he said gently. "I just heard the Argents' car. That'll be everyone."

            Stiles squeezed Derek's hand, and then let go. "Go stall them for a minute, I'll be down in a sec." Derek hesitated, searched his face, listened to his heartbeat for any sign of lying and finding none. He disappeared, snagging a shirt on the way out the door. Stiles pulled on his own shirt and gave a final glance about the room, his haven. His den.

            _It's ok_ , he reminded himself silently. _We made it. We're safe._

            Taking a deep breath, he skirted the edge of the bed, opened the door, and disappeared downstairs to celebrate.


End file.
